


The Tsar's Architect

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Romance, Versailles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Versailles AU. 1717. When Tsar Peter I travels to Regency France, it's to make a name for Russia abroad, to forge alliances. But he also intends to take in the views, sightsee, and learn about the art that embellishes the palaces of France and brings lustre to its might. That's why he brings a young English architect along with him. Merlin Emrys is to take note of everything, learn, imbue himself with the spirit of the place and put his skills at the Tsar's service. As Director of the King's Buildings, it falls to Jean-Arthur de Pandragon, Duc d'Avallon, to escort the Tsar around. That's how he meets Emrys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely spacealtie for helping me concoct a suitably aristocratic French name for Arthur!
> 
> Also, this is happening in parts, as you can see. They won't be very many but I sort of like the chaptered format, and the write as you go technique. I won't be too long finishing.
> 
> ETA: Now coming with magnificent art drawn by the wonderful merlocked18, who was so lovely as to put her time into portraying architecht Merlin, to lovely, lovely results. With bonus Versailles background. I suggest you check it out it's that great. [The Tsar's Architect Drawing ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5271371)

Versailles, 20th May, 1717

 

The workers trundle along the garden path, carrying a settee between them. The piece of furniture is pink damask with roses stitched in pale thread. It looks incongruous out in the open, where the sun shines and roses bloom, and yet here it is.

“Are you sure that is the right choice?” Governor de Blouin says. 

Arthur is sure. “I had a long correspondence with his Imperial Highness' secretary.” Arthur palms the letter still lying in his pocket, feeling the ridges of the seal wax he broke when he read the missive. “I'm now well acquainted with his tastes and preferences.”

Workers file out of the Duc de Bourgogne's apartments, shoulders down and hands grey with dust. 

“Alas, one's never sure of anything when such high personages are involved,” de Blouin says, pressing a scented handkerchief to his mouth and stepping aside when the workers brush past him. “And even more so when they're foreigners.”

Arthur doesn't comment on that. He has nothing to say on that head anyway. 

“So when is the Tsar arriving?” Governor de Blouin says. 

“He's lodging in Paris at the moment, at the hôtel de Lesdiguières.” Arthur grinds the gravel under his heel. “But he's expressed an intention to see Versailles.” Arthur gestures at the palace wing extending left and right in front of him. “He apparently has an appreciation for France, architecture and modernisation.”

de Blouin says, “And hopes of marrying his daughter Elisabeth to young King Louis have nothing do with that?”

Arthur shrugs. “As director of the King's Buildings it's not my place to consider such notions.” It's up to the Regent, the man who holds all the power, and Arthur's not close to him. “My duty is to see the Tsar installed, make sure the event goes smoothly, and that he likes his surroundings.”

“Well, the Regent gave Bourgogne the boot,” de Blouin says, “His imperial Highness might as well appreciate the gesture.”

“Tsar trumps duke.” Arthur grimaces. He won't hear the end of it from Bourgogne in the upcoming days, but at least he can claim it's Orléans' decision not his. “He will have his lodgings back quite soon. The Tsar won't stay into the summer.”

“How about his entourage?”

Arthur steps aside as another file of workers moves past him, carrying boxes. If Arthur's done his job well, they're full of ornaments that ought to remind the Tsar of his home as well as of the places he's loved the most during his travels.

“The Tar's servants will sleep in the antechamber.” Arthur knows the number of footmen and valets Peter travels with, has made sure to have it by heart. “His secretary is also to be lodged close by in case the Emperor needs him at a moment's notice.”

“That sounds reasonable.” de Blouin nods.

“As for his architect--”

“He has an architect too!” de Blouin shakes his head. 

“I told you,” Arthur says, as more of Bourgogne's stuff is carried out to be replaced with items better suited to the Tsar's tastes – or what they know of them. Letters travelled back and forth, ambassadors were consulted and all that just so the Tsar could have lodgings that were in line with his requirements. “His foremost interest is in architecture. He's building a palace of his own, Peterhof. Construction is in full swing and he's out here to study Versailles. So it's but natural he should have brought an architect with him.”

“Oh yes.” de Blouin dusts the frills of his shirt where they poke out of his sleeve. “To copy our style. I hear it's the vogue abroad.”

“I'm told imitation is the best form of flattery.”

“Only if it's done well,” de Blouin says. “Is this architect qualified to take on the burden that fell to Le Vau, Le Brun and Mansart?”

“I'm told he's competent.” Arthur's correspondence doesn't only cover household matters, though officially that's what he does. He has other informers, too, and they're quite efficient when it comes to information gathering. “An Englishman of some sort. ”

de Blouin snorts. “An Englishman!”

Arthur has no cause to love Englishmen – in spite of some ancestral Cornish roots of his own – but there's something about de Blouin that rubs him the wrong way, so he makes a point of saying, “As of last year the English are our allies.”

de Blouin tuts. “The English will never be our natural allies; we may make peace with them, but we will never be friends.”

Arthur grunts as non committally as possible.

A file of three men shoulder a carpet into the set of chambers. As rolled up as it is, Arthur can't make out the pattern, but he can tell the make. It's Chinese – all light blues and whites – and silk.

“Let us move aside,” de Blouin tells him, tugging ineffectually at Arthur's jacket. “I can't stand all this dust, this dirt!”

There isn't much in the way of either, but Arthur agrees just so de Blouin won't whine.

They take a stroll through the gardens, past the water parterre with its jet fountains and bronze statues, and along the walks. It's spring and roses are in bloom, flowering open in the sun, petals spreading to catch its rays. It's not an unpleasant sight in and of itself and if his companion were of a more agreeable sort, Arthur would be calling this a fine day indeed. 

de Blouin says, “I hope the Tsar's presence won't be a cause for concern.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I wouldn't want any unpleasantness to arise.”

“His security will be seen to, if that's what you're worrying about.” Arthur's received a quantity of dispatches on the subject. “The Tsar's will be having his own retinue, which will care for his protection. I hear they're quite serious about it too, especially given Peter's stormy beginnings back in the day, the rebellion that followed the Duma's decision to make him Tsar. No, that's covered, even though I hear we're making a sign of good will on that head. We'll be lending out a bodyguard of eight Royal Guard soldiers to the Tsar, and Marshal Tessé is to be with him at all times. Just to make sure the visit unfolds as pleasantly as possible for everyone concerned.”

“That was not what I was talking about,” de Blouin says, waving a hand jerkily about. “I fear disruption.”

“Disruption?”

“Of morals.” Governor de Blouin arches an eyebrow. “I heard that girls are to be provided. Monseigneur d'Orléans seems to have agreed.”

Arthur pinks up too, but it's nothing he wants de Blouin to see, so he stares ahead, at the path in front of him. “If women are to be there, it will be because the Tsar wills them to be there. If Monseigneur d'Orléans agrees, it will be as a sign of his hospitality.”

“Monsieur le Duc,” says de Blouin, stopping in his tracks. “I can't countenance this. It's wrong, immoral, unchristian.”

Arthur fights the urge to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “Unfortunately, Monsieur le Gouverneur, I can't do anything about that. It's not in my power at all.”

“But think of what the papers will say!” de Blouin flails his hands above his head. “The pamphlets!”

“I'm sure they will be gagged.” Arthur's never known of anything different ever happening. “The press always is.”

“Monseigneur d'Orléans is much more lax about these things than the late King Louis used to be.”

Arthur says, “Censorship still seems rife to me. But a few days ago Monsieur Arouet was sent to the Bastille.”

“That's only because a verse of his implied that Monseigneur was conducting amorous liaisons with his own daughter.” de Blouin sniffs. “He won't care about the reputation of the township of Versailles, as he doesn't care about any other piece of scandalous gossip, and you know it will come under fire if this--” He puffs his cheeks, which redden abundantly. “--this comes to pass...”

“Monsieur, I have no opinion on the subject--”

“And there you're wrong, Monsieur le Duc.” de Blouin wags a finger at him. “And there you're wrong.”

“...but If you have a remonstrance to make, I suggest you address it to Monseigneur d'Orléans.”

de Blouin straightens, rolls his shoulders as if he's preparing for some kind of fight, and, says, “That's exactly what I will do. He will have to listen to me. I am, after all, the Governor of Versailles. Yes, I shall do so straight away!” He about faces and adds, “If you will excuse me, Monsieur le Duc, I have the Regent to see.”

de Blouin stomps off, raising dust and kicking at the flower beds' edges.

Arthur stays put for a while longer, for the sun uswarming his back and clouds are lightly drifting past. He's always loved tracking clouds. Then, with a sigh, he goes back to oversee the workers preparing for the temporary handover of the Duc de Bourgogne's apartments. After all, he only has a few days before none other than the Tsar of all Russia takes possession of them.

 

*****


	2. First Meeting

The Tsar arrives so late at night no one is informed of his coming until the following morning. News of it only reaches Arthur at the breakfast table. 

When Arthur finds him, the Tsar is sitting in a row boat gliding along the Grand Canal, coat and waistcoat missing, his shirt rolled up to show biceps and forearms.

With no other option but waiting the Emperor out, Arthur joins his entourage around the waterway's stone banks.

The Tsar rows his little boat this way and that, going from left to right, then northwards to southwards. He then pulls his oars in and leans against the small boat's gunwale, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes against the eight-o'-clock glare. 

The sun is much more firmly up in the sky and glimmering a yolky ochre by the time the Tsar hops off the boat and onto the path. 

Arthur bows deeply, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

The Tsar puts his hand out for Arthur to kiss. 

Arthur touches his lips to his ring, a fat ruby, and straightens. “Let me bid you welcome to Versailles.”

The Tsar nods and looks around. “The sun has already alerted me to its great beauties.”

Arthur bows.

The Tsar introduces him to the members of his retinue, Counts Shafirov and Tolstoy, and to Princes Dolgorukov, Kourakin and Dogoruky. He names the name of the sketch artists and landscape gardeners he's brought with him. They're Italian and French, English and Dutch. “Oh and there's my architect,” the Tsar says, indicating the man approaching them from out one of the many paths the Versailles gardens form. He's young, lanky, with a shock of black hair on his head that's tamed by neither queue nor wig. Much like the Tsar, he's in his shirts sleeves. Unlike him, he carries a pile of sketches under his arm. “Mr Emrys.”

Mr Emrys sticks his hand out, British fashion, and Arthur, at a loss, shakes it. 

“Pleasure,” Emrys says, his French accented, awkward, yet somehow not unpleasant, with a musicality that has a rumbling bass quality to it.

“Likewise.” Arthur lingers on the word, not because it means much at all, but because it gives him time to come to terms with the man he's just met.

Knowing that he's got duties to see to, Arthur shakes out of his oddly charged reverie and shows the Tsar and his retinue the grounds. They take in the gardens and the Trianon, the walks and the copses, the Orangerie and the Royal Chapel. In a low voice he tells them how it was only completed in '10 and how the late King wasn't buried there but in St Denis, where all the other French monarchs are interred. Backing out of its marble vault, he leads them inside and along the Hall of Mirrors. The late King Louis, he tells them, used it to go from the chapel to his private Chambers. He mentions how the latter are currently empty, for the young King resides in the Tuileries. As they walk along it, the reflection of marble, bronze capitals and candlelight gilds the room better than sunlight, coating everything in a dusting the colour of treacle and bliding them to the real thing. They spill back out onto the gardens and stroll along their bypaths. They pause every now and then. At times it's so that the Tsar can better observe his surroundings. At others it's so Emrys can take a sketch of whatever landmark catches his fancy.

When he does, he goes on his haunches, balancing on his toes rather than on his heels, sheets spread out and propped on his thigh. He draws a variety of lines with the sharp of his pencil, moving so quickly that at first they seem only a jumble, an assemblage of faulty angles. But then the tracery of them comes together and Arthur can see the outline of a building, of a statue, of a door, or the detail of some piece of ornamentation, a frieze, a column cap, a bas relief.

He's always back on his feet in a matter of minutes, pencil behind his ear, hair in disarray. By the time they've finished their tour of the palace's highlights he must have collected at least thirty sketches.

Throughout the Tsar doesn't speak much but takes in everything, nodding at this or and that feature, watching everything keenly, with a measuring gaze Arthur learns to be respectful of. 

His retinue affects silence except for when they're spoken to. They always agree with whatever the Tsar has to say, with Dogouriky being the only contrarian voice, especially keen to condemn all things French.

At last, after he's been taken everywhere excepting private chambers, the Tsar says, “This palace looks to me like a pigeon with the wings of an eagle.”

Emrys steps forward. “But there's beauty everywhere in it, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“You think so, Emrys?” From his vantage point at the back of the gardens, the Tsar cocks his head at the building. 

“Yes.” Emrys walks up to the Tsar, stands shoulder to shoulder with him. “This place wasn't initially conceived to become as vast as sprawling as it now is, that's obvious, but it can teach us so many lessons.”

“And what may they be?”

“Lessons in perspective and space distribution,” Emrys says, framing the building with his hands. “The function of the decorative arts.”

The Tsar palms Emrys' shoulder and says, “You're not wrong, sir. You're not wrong. Let your schooling be fruitful, so all of your knowledge can be poured into Peterhof.”

Emrys bows.

The Tsar says, “Peterhof will usher Russia into Europe, you'll see. It will be a symbol of our power and ingenuity.” He steps away from his architect. “And you'll be at the heart of that.”

Emrys surprises Arthur by blushing. He does so in a rush, skin pinking from neck to ears.

It's afternoon by the time Arthur can conduct the Tsar back to his apartments. Before the servants can bustle in, he says, “I hope everyone's happy with their accommodation?”

“I am most certainly not,” says Dogouriky, as he exits the chamber next to the emperor's. “There's too little light in my room and too many mirrors.” He pushes his paunch outwards. “A man of my age does not need quite as many mirrors.”

“We can arrange some sort of swap.” Arthur's not surprised, not wholly anyway. Sometimes dignitaries like to throw their their weight around, putting strange requests forward, just to make sure everybody's aware of their standing. It's the game of diplomacy. “I'm sure a suitable solution can be found.”

“You can have my room,” Emrys says, looking up from a quick study of the sketeches he took. “I don't need quite as much space as everybody else.”

“But you do need the light,” the Tsar says. “For your drawings and projects.”

Emrys shifts his weight. “That's true.” He winces. “I suppose I can take lodgings in town.” He turns to Arthur and when he does so it's with an easy, conciliatory smile. “I'm sure there must be rooms to let in town.”

There aren't as many as Emrys thinks. Half of the Russian entourage has taken up lodgings there, for only those closest to the Tsar get to reside in the palace itself. Even so, Arthur will have to conjure up one at a moment's notice. “It can be done,” he settles for saying. “I'll find you something myself.”

When the Tsar dismisses his retinue, it's Arthur himself who escorts Emrys into Versailles.

The carriage is rolling under them, houses flashing past, when Emrys says, “Thank you for looking after me.”

“It's my job.”

“You went out of your way.” Emrys turns his gaze from the panorama flashing past and onto Arthur. “You didn't have to accommodate me.”

Arthur shakes his head in a motion of denial. “It's exactly within my job description.”

“And you like doing it well,” Emrys says. “Your job.”

Arthur drums his fingers on his thigh; he does it in the same rhythm as that of the rolling carriage. “Yes. Versailles may have a reputation for laxism, especially amongst your people.” Arthur knows enough English to be able to occasionally read the British press. “But I do take pride in doing what I do.”

Emrys smiles. It's a slow-blooming quivering of the lips that soon turns into a fully fledged grin. “I do too.”

They don't speak again until they're in Emrys' new rooms. They're at the top of an inn belonging to an old lady who lives on the ground floor. They overlook the back street and offer a view of roof tiles, tree canopies, and draining pipes. The latter groan and moan and Arthur hopes Emrys is not fastidious when it comes to noises, because if he is this place won't do for him. The more so since the rest of it has little to recommend itself.

A small antechamber segues into a modestly proportioned bedroom. It doesn't overflow with furniture. It has a bed on one side, a wardrobe on the other, and a table in the middle. A threadbare carpet prevents the legs from digging furrows into the floorboards.

“I can find you better tomorrow,” Arthur says, as Emrys tries the bed. 

“I don't want better.” Bouncing his weight, Emrys tests the springs. They creak with the motions of his body. “This– this reminds me of home.”

“Home?” Arthur arches an eyebrow.

“I'm plain Mr Emrys, aren't I?” Emrys eyes dance quite merrily and his shoulders go back, his chest filling. It's out of pride or something very like it. “You can't think I was born brushing shoulders with the aristocracy, can you?”

There are many questions Arthur might ask, a variety of ways in which he could probe. But there's something in the way Emrys looks at him, a curious earnestness flaying the skin off him, that stops him. Either way, it wouldn't be quite proper, would it? “You can change your mind at any time.”

Emrys sprawls backwards, with his legs dangling over the foot board and his arms stretched overhead, his fingers falling short of touching the headboard. In that position he becomes all lines, thighs, flanks, elbows. Somehow his leanness gets even more evident, more of a tangible reality. “Why should I? I'm already getting used to this new haunt of mine.”

“Well, you're free to do as you please, of course.” Arthur drops his gaze and munches on his bottom lip. “But do let me know if you've any complaint.”

Emrys sits up, watching him for a moment or two, studying him in the way he does buildings, as if he's looking for the construction plan of Arthur, the very fault lines of him. “I will.”

“Well, I'll leave you to it then,” Arthur says, playing with the folds of his hat. He hesitates a few moments, heartbeats he cannot account for, and then to a creak of floorboards, he stalks out of the premises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, having the Tsar on a row boar wasn't a whim of mine. It's what he historically did. Have a quote:
> 
>  
> 
> _In the morning, the Tsar rose early. His escort at Versailles, the Duc d'Antin, going to find him, discovered that the Tsar had already walked among the clipped hedges and stylized flower beds of the palace gardens and was at that moment rowing a boat on the Grand Canal._
> 
>  
> 
> Massie, R. K, _Peter the Great: His Life and World_ , Random House Trade Paperbacks, New York, 2011, p 651
> 
> The Count Tolstoy mentioned here would be a forebear of that Tolstoy.


	3. Dinner at Fontainebleau

On the second day the Comte de Toulouse relieves Arthur of some of his hosting duties. The Tsar's party moves over to Fontainebleau for a short visit that is to include a tour of the grounds, a stag hunt, and a formal dinner. 

The tour, attended by architects and landscapers, starts in the morning and ends early to allow the hunt to take place. Grooms appear in supple leather boots as high as their knees and kennel masters lead in hound packs by the leash. Designers and draughtsmen retire and the noblemen change into more practical gear.

The dogs bray and frolic around the horses, stamping tracks into the soft soil. The mounts chomp at the bit and paw at the ground. Count Tolstoy talks about the hunt in Russia; there, he says, they target the bear and the wolf. They use hounds too, but theirs are Borzois, big, shaggy creatures, with the fast bodies of greyhounds and the ability to withstand the cold of the steppes. 

Toulouse responds by describing the hunts that took place in his father's day. “When the King was alive, the hunt was more akin to a battle than a sport. Drums would be sounded, horses would be caparisoned, lances would be held up, and the King himself would sit resplendent on his steed.”

The Tsar doesn't answer, he reins his horse away, nearing the copse.

When the bugle sounds, the hunting party starts at a gallop. It dashes along the parkland at breakneck pace, going into the woods and picking its way through them. They all sweep along, the horses hurtling by, leaping over fallen trees and wading across fast churning streams. The sounds of the baying dogs and hunting horns gives them purpose, a direction to move towards. The pace makes Arthur aware of the power of his mount, the excitement in the air, as well as the risks he's running, the close calls he's avoiding by dint of decent horsemanship and, ultimately, some kind of innate sixth sense.

They follow the stag to a waterfall. At bay, the bleeding beast turns to face the hunters. While an attendant holds the reins of his horse, Toulouse dismounts and, knife in hand, makes for the animal.

His expression tightening, the Tsar reins his horse round and spurs him back onto the forest path. 

Arthur doesn't hesitate. Bearing witness to Toulouse's hunting feats is not one of his duties. Making sure the Emperor of Russia feels at ease throughout his visit is. Streaking past a walls of ferns, Arthur follows the Tsar back to the château.

Peter stomps into the great hall, saying, “Inhuman, despicable, violent sport!”

“Your Imperial Majesty.” Arthur jogs up to him. “Your Imperial Majesty, please, a moment.”

The Tsar whirls round. “I hope you're not trying to justify this type of hunting as some kind of noble activity?”

“No, Your Imperial Majesty.” Arthur likes hunting. He enjoys the testing of his skill that it is. But he's never thought it a praise-worthy activity, or a particularly ethical one.

“Because it isn't,” says the Tsar. “Like that, man has all the advantage and the prey none. It's an unequal battle, fought on unequal ground.”

Arthur inclines his head. “I'm sorry you were made to witness it, Your Majesty. We should have sounded you on this.”

“Toulouse should have!” The Tsar's eyes flame.

“You must understand--” A faux pas here, Arthur knows, could cost France dearly. The whole visit could potentially turn into a diplomatic fiasco. “--that Toulouse is in a difficult position.”

“It didn't seem so to me,” the Tsar says. “He looked as if he was in perfect control and enjoying himself.”

“I was talking about his position at court.” The Tsar is sure to understand the intricacies of one, the complications of palace life. “He's the late King's son. Everybody knows it and he was legitimised as such, but he can't be king, never will be. Parliament's talking about revoking the Marly edict the late King had approved. With it standing he'd have the right to succeed; without it he's got nothing. He has a bit of a complex on that head and, I believe, he was merely trying to show off.”

The Tsar's frown relaxes. “You think that that's the reason behind Toulouse's behaviour, his pain concerning the issue?”

Arthur's brow puckers. “I believe it was, yes.” In a roundabout way at least.

“You believe the burden of illegitimacy may affect people so much, so deeply?”

Arthur is no expert and has never weighed the question, but he wagers that it is safe to answer in the affirmative. “Yes.”

“That's food for thought, Monsieur le Duc. That's food for thought.” Having said that, the Tsar turns around and walks away.

Emrys descends the grand staircase a few moments later. “What was that?” he asks, as he watches the Tsar disappear past a colonnade.

“He didn't enjoy the hunt,” Arthur tells him. “Too bloodthirsty a sport apparently.”

“I could have told you that.” Emrys sidles from side to side. “I've seldom seen him hunt. I've certainly never seen him ride after prey.”

“Toulouse was having a capricious fit.” Arthur snorts. “I believe he wanted to make sure everybody knew he was the son of kings. So we had a diplomatic faux pas on our hands.”

Emrys chuckles. “That happens a lot in your circles, doesn't it?”

Arthur shares the laugh. It ripples from his belly outwards and makes his body feel much lighter. He probably ought to stop. They're mocking the son of the late monarch here, a capricious aristocrat with a penchant for pettiness. If this gets back to him, things might take an unpleasant turn. But Arthur doesn't think anything untoward will happen, for there's no one around to overhear and he doesn't believe Emrys to be the type to use this against him. “And in yours it doesn't?”

“Are we talking about architects or...” He cocks his head at the nook the Emperor vanished into. “Grandees?”

“Both.”

“We all have our foibles.”

“Does the Tsar?” That's the kind of question Arthur should think twice before asking. It looks as if he's asking for ammunition against his charge, France's guest. But there's something about this conversation that makes him so giddy he wishes it to continue, so he dares to pursue lines of enquiry he probably wouldn't otherwise dare sound.

“He's no fool.” Merlin's brow puckers in thought. “He's savvy and has an appreciation for the arts and crafts.”

“So he's not just a patron?” Arthur leans closer, as if proximity will wrest an honest answer out of Emrys. “He's some sort of inspiration for you.”

“Are you asking me if my reasons for putting my skills at his service are mercenary?”

“No.” Arthur has no interest in finding out whether Emrys is getting rich with his projects. In a way he hopes he is. “I guess I like to know what makes men tick, what fires their fancy.”

Understanding flashes in Emrys' eyes, a quick bolt of it. “Not money.”

Arthur's about to probe some more, when the hunters start to trickle back in, their talk of the kill, of what led to it, of the sport in general. 

“I'd better go change,” Arthur says, aware of the mud under his boots for the first time since he came back in. 

Merlin gives his own clothes a once over too; they're simple both in quality and look but unlike Arthur's they're pristine.“I suppose I'd better go as well. This is no fit garb for a formal dinner.”

Candles burn bright in their candelabra. The table is clothed in white and gold. The plates are Meissner and Limoges, and not just any other set, but the best Arthur's seen in quite a while, with resplendent enamel and etchings in colours so vibrant they rival those of nature. 

As the second of six courses is taken away, the Comte de Toulouse says, “This is as it should be. We're eating of the fruits of our work.”

The venison on the Emperor's plate sits largely untouched. “I would hesitate too call bloodsports labour.”

Toulouse affects a laugh. “Your Imperial Majesty is certainly not comparing the noble art of hunting to the bloodsports of the ancients?”

“I suppose I am,” the Tsar says, putting down his silver fork. 

“But Your Imperial Majesty does partake of the yields of the hunt.” Toulouse invites the nods of his guests. “If not in this instance, then at other times.”

Arthur's about to intervene, when Emrys does. He's sitting at the far end of the table, close to his fellow artists, and his voice doesn't carry well, but even so he speaks. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he says, “have you noticed the style of the new wing, the one close to the Galérie des Cerfs?”

“I have,” the Tsar answers, turning from Toulouse to Emrys. “And I do find it pleasing to the eye.”

“I do too.”

“But I can't help but think.” The Tsar worries his nail, “that this castle is too small for true beauty, too modest for a king. I want something different for Peterhof.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Emrys toasts him with some wine.

Reddening fiercely, Toulouse guzzles some of alcohol of his own. “Is our conversation to be dictated to by menials now?”

Emrys presses his lips together until they blanch.

There's a brittle quality to Emrys' expression that makes something inside Arthur twist along jagged lines. Before he's quite thought things through, he says, “Monsieur de Toulouse, do not forget yourself.”

Toulouse splutters, glares, but with all eyes on him he dares say nothing more.

The awkwardness around the dinner table doesn't quite dissipate until the meal is over and the guests disperse. Emrys leaves by the garden doors.

The waters of a pool reflect the moonlight in a dazzling game of tag. In the absence of the sun the flowers that line the pathways have closed in their buds; only the breeze plays with their petals, carrying their scent on the air.

“Mr Emrys, please, a word,” Arthur says, as he hastens to catch up with the man.

Mr Emrys continues on in his march, head down, body taut, then his shoulders square and he comes to an abrupt halt. “Yes.” He only half turns. 

“I'm sorry for what happened.” 

Emrys nods. “The Emperor will come round. He's not one for grudges.” He twists his mouth. “Unless they're strictly political.”

“This isn't about the Tsar.” Arthur oughtn't admit it, but he's come so far, he might as well. Besides he has a hunch total honesty is needed here, that Emrys won't be countenance him if he goes without. “Toulouse is an idiot and shouldn't have said what he did.”

“I'm not hurt.” Emrys puts all his weight on his back foot. “What happened at dinner was unpleasant. It made me think about things I'd rather not linger on. Consider the value of notions such as birth and respect--”

“Toulouse was touting his own horn,” Arthur says, stretching his hand out towards Emrys, as if he's some kind of supplicant. “He's a coxcomb and nothing else.”

“That's why it didn't matter.” Emrys turns around, his shoulders up. “You can't be hurt by someone you have no respect for.”

Arthur nods. “I apologise on behalf of...”

“Don't.” Emrys holds his palm up. “I hope I'm proud enough of what I've made of myself not to mind the words of a single person I hold in no esteem.”

“Still--”

“Then talk on your own behalf,” Emrys says, and when he does the tension lines have all gone from his face. “I'd rather have that.”

“I believe you deserved none of that,” Arthur says, trying to navigate his feelings on the subject. They're a murky jumble, completely unclear. “I believe you're a master at your job and if that makes you a menial, then I value skill and competence more than the judgements of people like Toulouse.”

Emrys watches him keenly as if to spot a lie, but then his gaze softens and he says, “How do you know I'm good at my job?”

“I've seen you in action,” Arthur says. “You appear very competent.”

“But you've never seen any of my finished designs.”

“No, well.” Heat creeps up Arthur's neck. “I'm afraid not.”

Emrys' lips quirk. He moistens them. “Come visit me tomorrow. At my lodgings. I'll show you them.”

“I will.” Arthur lets the pause foster a sense of understanding between them. “But I still stand by my words.”

“Sight unseen.” Emrys shakes his head, a muffled chuckle accompanying the movement. “That's quite naive of you. I could be utterly horrid. But you do believe in the fundamental equality of men and that sets you apart.”

Arthur hasn't quite admitted this much. It's not that he's definitely unwilling to, but he hasn't weighed the concept thoroughly, its more far reaching implications. Even so, he can't bear to disappoint Emrys, so he doesn't dispel the notion he does agree. “So till tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Emrys says, “till tomorrow.”


	4. Sparring Closer

Rapier blades hiss as they cut the air. They clang when they meet, resonating across the salle. Arthur and Lancelot circle each other, looking for openings, lunging and parrying. Lancelot steps back, then goes for a flèche attack, which Arthur intercepts en quarte, his blade slipping in under Lancelot's arm, the point grazing the soft centre of his armpit, a move meant to majorly disable or kill one's opponent.

"Point to Monsieur le Duc," says the duelling master, extending his arm towards Arthur. "Monsieur le Duc d'Avallon wins." 

Arthur wags his head at the duelling master to aknowledge his decision. 

Lancelot nods and smiles, both at Arthur and the compère.

The two of them reach for each other and shake hands. 

They're exiting the salle, still in their shirtsleeves, when Lancelot asks, “Now you can tell me why you brought our match forward?”

“Because I have an appointment to keep.”

“This early in the morning?” Lancelot steps into the corridor that unfolds at the base of the stairs. “What sort of appointment may this be? Has the Tsar woken with the dawn again?”

“No,” Arthur says, opening the door to the changing rooms. “This is not part of my duties.”

Lancelot wings an eyebrow. “Then why did you re-schedule at all?”

Arthur drops his blunted rapier and pulls off his shirt. It's damp under the arms and along the back. “Because you're an early bird anyway and I'd really like to make this new meeting.”

“It seems quite important for you to go to such pains.”

Arthur picks up his spare shirt and unbuttons it. “I want to honour a promise I made.”

“A promise, eh?” A smile unfurls on Lancelot's lips.

When Arthur makes it there, the door to Emrys' set of rooms gapes open and Emrys himself is bustling around. “I would have knocked--” He shifts his weight and gestures behind him. “-- but, as you can see.”

Emrys looks up from a stack of drawings. “No, come in. Come in. I was actually waiting for you.”

Arthur notices that Emrys hasn't finished dressing. He's wearing shirt and breeches, but his sleeves are rolled up and his shirt tails haven't been tucked in. He looks overall as if he's being caught in the throes of being very domestic. “Are you sure?” He nods at the door. “I can drop by another time.”

“Very sure.” Emrys moves a plate full of fruit and cheese from worktop to window sill. “I was looking forward to showing you my work.”

“In that case,” Arthur says, crossing over to the table.

Emrys brushes crumbs off its surface and dusts a chair. Arthur sits in it but with Emrys' palm wrapped around the top tail he doesn't dare lean back. Emrys pulls a stack of sheets forward. They're wide and thick, pristinely white. The lines covering them coalesce into the shape of buildings viewed face on and from angles and cross sections. 

“That's my life work,” Merlin says, pointing at his portfolio. “From first to last job.”

Arthur inspects each drawing in turn; he makes out farm buildings and stables, church chancels and villas. As they progress towards the more recent ones, the drawings get more intricate, hint at larger scales and grander designs. 

“Nothing's quite like Versailles of course,” Emrys says, ducking his head. “I've never done anything remotely similar.”

“It doesn't need to be.” There's a lightness to Merlin's designs, an effortless whimsicality that yet manages to stay solid, that sets them apart from others Arthur's seen before. “Your work...” Arthur's throat works. “It shows extraordinary talent.”

Emrys goes a fiery red, starting at the ears. “Thank you.” He wets his lips. “I hope that's enough. That I can rise to the challenge.”

“The Tsar hired you,” Arthur says, flicking his eyes up to Merlin and willing him to meet his gaze. “Not someone else. You.”

“He can change his mind at any point.” Merlin does look him in the eye but soon glances away. “He can have his pick of architects.”

“He won't change his mind.” Arthur doesn't know the Tsar that intimately, so of course, he can't be positive. Except he's confident Emrys' new project will satisfy him because Emrys is just so very gifted. “You said it yourself, the Tsar is no fool.”

Emrys turns round and leans against the edge of the table. He folds his arms and says, “Would it make him a fool not to trust me?” His lips curl at the edges in something that's closer to a wince than a smile. “Somehow I don't think so.”

“He could have chosen anyone in the whole wide world and he settled on you,” Arthur says, with more vehemence to his tone than he'd meant to express. “Trust him to know his mind.”

Emrys nods, shakes his head, nods. “That's what I tell myself. Before falling asleep. Every night since I got the job, I try to talk myself up to it. But sometimes... Sometimes I just fear I won't live up to...”

“His expectations?”

Emrys inclines his head. “And mine.”

“I understand that.” Arthur relaxes against the chair even while his gaze wanders off into the distance, unfocusing. “I do that too sometimes.”

“Afraid that you won't make the perfect aristocrat?”

Arthur shrugs. “That I will do my family name less than proud, that I won't be able to navigate the corruption of the court, that it will bring me down. Lots of things.”

“It won't.” Emrys flashes him a quick smile.

“You sound awfully certain.”

“Maybe.” Emrys rounds his shoulders in a dismissive notion. “Or maybe I believe you're too good a person to fall into that trap.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, suddenly unable to vocalise any more complex thought. “Um.”

“I embarrassed you, didn't I?”

“I did the same, I wager.” A light rumbling chuckle issues from Arthur's throat and Emrys promptly joins him.

Their laughter quietens into a silence that stretches for a few prolonged beats. It maybe be a tentative pause but it's not an awkward one and it puts Arthur at ease, makes him fully take stock of the moment, appreciate it for what it is.

“I'm forgetting myself and being a very poor host,” Emrys says. “Why don't I get you something to drink?”

They share a glass of cider and some of the food from the plate. The conversation reverts to the general, with Emrys asking about France, her people and her customs. Arthur makes a point of answering as thoughtfully as possible, as sincerely as possible. In return Emrys speaks about his native village and shares funny anecdotes about his country. By the end of if they're both chuckling. Then Emrys bites down on his smile, sobers, and says, “What's the proper protocol for addressing a duke?” He casts his gaze downwards. “Can they only be informally addressed by members of their own family?”

“Call me Arthur,” Arthur says. “No matter what.”

By the time Arthur leaves, Merlin and he are addressing each other on a first name basis.


	5. Paris

The next day he meets Merlin in the bosquet de la girandole, in the Versailles gardens. He's sitting on the ground behind a maze-like wall of greenery, his legs crossed, his sketchbook open on his knees. He's tracing the outlines of the fountain in front of him on paper.

“You could have asked a servant for a stool of some kind,” Arthur says as he walks round him, gravel crackling under his boot. “I'm sure they would have obliged.”

“I woke early.” Merlin shades his drawing. “I didn't feel like disturbing anyone else.”

“It's their job.”

Merlin gives a shrug, which has him hunching over his sketchbook. “Maybe, but I can do without, so I'd rather not task them with anything.”

“Waking with the dawn,” Arthur says, coming to a halt next to Merlin' side, “is it a habit you've developed in the Tsar's retinue or is it something that comes naturally?”

Merlin puts his chin up to look at Arthur and squints against the pale sun. “The latter. You get used to waking up early when you're born on a farm. The rhythms of the land.”

Arthur sits next to Merlin, with his elbows on his knees. “Ah, those. I'm afraid I'm not very closely acquainted with them.”

Merlin turns his head just so, raises his eyebrows, then goes back to reproducing the vista on paper. Arthur can hear the scratch of his pencil and the rustle of paper. 

“The Tsar's gone to Paris,” Merlin says, looking into the distance, tapping his pencil against the edge of the sheet, “to see the Whitsunday procession.”

“I know.” It's the whole reason Arthur's out here taking a stroll rather than entertaining the Regent's guests. “Why didn't you join in?”

“I need to get cracking if I want to get all my sketches done.” Merlin thumbs a curl of paper. “Have all my notes down.”

“The leisure of emperors, eh?” Arthur rubs his shins.

“To be fair he's going to pay for my time,” Merlin says, waving a hand about. “Besides, I love it, taking it all in. The beauties of shape and form.”

“I never doubted that.” There's something in the way Merlin talks about buildings, in the manner he renders them on paper, that speaks of love and respect. “I can tell.”

“I haven't waxed lyrical about it, have I?”

“No.” Arthur has to admit that too. Merlin has only spoken when asked or when the occasion called for it. “But your love for architecture does shine through.”

“It's the place,” Merlin tells him, rounding his shoulders in a half shrug. “It makes you appreciate the feats of ingenuity that lie behind its construction.”

“Does it?”

Merlin's mouth twitches. “Bear with me. The other day the Tsar was talking about how proportions here don't match.” He waves his hands at the parkland behind which the palace lies. “And he's right. Technically the old central wing, the one that was there before, is suited to a much smaller castle. Which makes sense because the place went from hunting lodge to palace. But the truth is the eye is fooled into loving it.”

“Fooled?” Arthur's never quite thought of it like that.

“You're made to look elsewhere,” Merlin says, “so that you're not thinking in terms of the whole anymore.”

“Wouldn't I still be taking it in though?” Arthur thinks of the senses as something that can't be easily manipulated. “The whole.”

Merlin flips his drawing and starts tracing lines on the reverse of it. “This--” He quickly completes the outline. “-- is the château's central wing. Exactly as it is in reality. I kept the proportions intact.” He shows the piece to Arthur. “When you look at the plan of it, it's evident. The lateral buildings are later constructions dwarfing the original one.”

Arthur looks at the drawing and can't help but see what Merlin means. “Yes, but--”

“But it's not the first thing you think about when you set eyes upon the palace, is it?” Merlin hums. “No, what you see is a resplendent whole, each stylistic device carefully repeated in a pattern that has a rhythm to it, creation by division. That's why you don't notice the details, the fragments. The gaze goes to pattern and you forget the mismatched units.” 

“That's quite an interesting explanation,” Arthur says. “Certainly not one I've thought of before.”

“I'll tell you more.” Merlin's eyes spark with enthusiasm, his whole body lends itself to it. He doesn't stand, but he does gesture, his back straightening and bending with the rhythm of his speech. “The gardens help a lot too.” He drinks them in with his eyes. “Though they're symmetrical, they're built around a network of pathways that are interrupted by rond-points, pavilions, nooks and crannies. It's a kind of controlled wildness that leaves a lot of room for the imagination.”

“And while you're caught in a flight of fancy you don't think about imperfections.”

“That's right!”

“That's why you're out here this morning, isn't it?” Arthur nods at the gardens around them.

“Yes.” Merlin smiles at his surroundings. “Yes, that's why I'm out here. To learn.”

“So you're going to draw on Versailles for inspiration?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “But it's not only going to be Versailles.”

“So you're thinking of other places too?”

Merlin puts down his sketchbook and scratches at his thigh. “I do mean to take in as much of France as I can.”

“Even spaces less grand than this?”

“Of course.” Merlin' gaze roams the long distance. “I'm not always going to work for an emperor, am I? I have to learn how to construct simpler buildings too.”

“Normal houses then?” Arthur hazards another guess. “Simpler exteriors?”

“Yes, that too.” Emrys wags his head in one quick up and down motion.

“You should study Paris then.”

Merlin grimaces. “I'm afraid I gave it a pass today in favour of doing some work.” He gestures at his sketches. “I'm sure the Tsar will go again though. His visit is in no way done.”

“Why wait for the Tsar at all?” Arthur cocks his head. “I'm sure you're not obliged to wait on him hand and foot.”

“No.” Merlin nods. “Not at all. The Tsar's not like that. He's fairly permissive.”

“Well then,” Arthur says, trying to make it easy while he realises how difficult this is, “we're going into Paris.”

“When?” Merlin breathes that out, and there's a shine to his eyes that suggests he wants to go.

“Tomorrow, if you like.”

“Tomorrow then.” Merlin tamps down on a smile, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his lower lip. “Bright and early.”

 

∼∼∼∼

 

Their carriage rolls onto the Pont Royal, pushing past a motley mixture of pedestrians and vehicles, the latter slower than the former. When they trundle past it, they flow into even worse traffic, a chaos of men and horses, chaises and brouettes. The Quai des Tuileries is as busy as the bridge was and the coachman negotiates it at a crawl. It doesn't seem to matter however, because Merlin's eyes are shining bright, and wide with a brand of enthusiasm Arthur feels is quite infectious. Leaning out of the window, Merlin takes in the unfolding city, the gleaming slate roofs, the quais and squares, the rues unknotting beside the old Louvre, with their rows of shops, narrow pavements, and eddies of people.

They emerge onto the Quai des Galèries du Louvre, but can't move past it, the carriage's progress blocked by the crowds, so Arthur leans out the window and tells the driver, “Pick us back up at the Châtelet, we're going for a walk.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc.”

Arthur guides Merlin along the busiest streets of Paris and down the most crowded, into churches and back out onto markets places. They visit gardens and stroll down avenues, stopping to view landmarks as well as nooks and crannies Merlin finds interesting. Merlin leans over bridges and watches the Seine flow past. From time to time he stops at some corner or other, takes his sketchbook out and draws, reproducing façades onto small sections of paper. In the faubourg the brush past workers clopping along the streets on their way back or to work. They buy some food from vendors. It comes in cloth bundles that smell like nuts and honey. Under the dark arcades of the Palais Royal, they get accosted by prostitutes. They whistle and catcall, promise them a night not to forget. Merlin kisses their hands, smiles, chats a little, but turns them down.

Later in a café, in which _philosphes_ are proselytising, Arthur asks Merlin, “Why did you say no to them?”

Merlin has ordered cocoa. He stirs it with a spoon that gets caught in the thickness of it. “Because I wasn't interested in them.”

Arthur has tea. It's from the Indies and he inhales its scent before he drinks it. “You say it with such nonchalance.”

“It's easy to,” Merlin says. “I know what makes my heart beat that little bit faster. I try and pursue that and only that.”

Arthur puts the cup on his saucer, stares at its contents. “You're not wrong.”

“You should always do what makes you happy.”

Arthur lifts his gaze, focuses it on Merlin without giving in to the urge to drop it. “Is that...”

“What?” 

The words stop in Arthur's throat so he says something else, something that comes out with much more ease. “Is that why you've chosen architecture, because it gives you joy?”

“Yes.” Merlin subsides against the chair. “Yes, it seemed but natural.”

“How?” Arthur probes.

“Before... I could have been a happy farmer or a contented innkeeper,” Merlin says, painting circles on the tabletop with his fingers. “But I knew what my vocation was. So I tried my hand at it.”

“And hit gold.”

Merlin fiddles with the knot of his cravat. “By the way, thank you for showing me around.”

“I'm sure the Tsar will come back and take you too.“ Arthur plays down his role. Can't do anything else because Merlin's easily gratefulness can topple him, loose fragments of his heart in his chest.

“Yes, but they'd be at his own whim,” Merlin says. “Like this we can stop when we wish, interact with people, take in all the wonderful architecture.”

Arthur flicks his cup. “And you love all of that.”

“You're getting to know me.”

Though it doesn't help centre him, Arthur breaks his gaze away from Merlin. “Come visit my place then.”

Merlin's' mouth draws into a smile, one that appears a little incredulous, but that is no less of one because of it. “What?”

Arthur speaks fast. “I have a castle in Burgundy. It's got a motte and drawbridge and plenty of architectural features a man like you is bound to find interesting.”

“Oh.” Merlin wraps his napkin around his finger. “Unfolds it. Oh.”

“If you're worried about not being there when the Tsar wants you,” Arthur says, hoping he can forestall any objection Merlin might have by way of some sound reasoning, “rest assured horse relays are frequent and pretty efficient. We can be back in little more than two days.”

“I wasn't thinking of that,” Merlin says, “the Tsar doesn't need me at his beck and call all the time.”

Arthur's face falls in of itself. “Of course, if you'd rather not, I can subscribe.”

“No, I'd love to.” Merlin waves his hands about. “I was just wandering why?”

Arthur frowns. “Why what?”

“Why you asked me round, I suppose.” Merlin picks the napkin up again, drops it, drinks some of his cocoa. 

Arthur is about to give some sort of elaborate answer that would be socially acceptable but probably not wholly sincere, when the rooms bursts into applause at something the _Philosphe_ has said. When the clapping dies down, Arthur says, “It'll just be a pleasure.”

“If that's the case--” Merlin gives him a slow smile. “--I'll be honoured.”

At a loss for words, they turn around then and listen to the rest of the Philosophe's argument. It's interesting enough to hold Arthur's attention for a while, but then it wanders off, and he's soon after observing Merlin, studying his reactions to the speech, the way he's moved by it, the way his body reacts to it, with a tip of the head, a clenching of fists, a vigorous nod. In his study of him, something settles in Arthur. It goes from instinct to sensation to deep seated feeling.

It's night by the time they rejoin the carriage at the Châtelet.


	6. Avallon

They travel on horseback. It's faster and it allows them to take in the vista in a way no carriage could. Arthur's used to the golden fields stretching into rolling plains, to the copses developing into full-blooded forests. Merlin isn't and he looks at everything with wide eyes, with unwavering attention, with an eagerness to take it all in that makes everything look fresh to Arthur, that gives a new hue to familiar landscapes.

They get to Arthur's family home by nightfall so there isn't much to see. The castle looms in shadow, flambeux fluttering in the wind and shedding scant light over the motte.

The hooves of their horses clop onto the drawbridge and courtyard's flagstones. A lantern in her hand casting guttering light here and there, the housekeeper shows them inside. She leads them up spiral stairs and into a turret. It's laid out as a parlour with a fire crackling in the fireplace and armchairs lined up in front of it.

Though it's spring, the temperature is low up here and the fire welcome.

“It feels like a proper medieval castle,” Merlin says.

“Yes.” Arthur's lips twitch. “Very draughty.”

“Very scenic.” Merlin splays his hands in front of the fire, gives him a lopsided sideways grin. “I was going to say.”

It's on the next day, when the sun has come up and worked some warmth into the stone, that they go on a tour of the castle. A lot of the rooms are no longer in use, couldn't possibly be. There's only him left and the keep is big enough for entire households, for squads of servants, and large feudal retinues. Was meant for them, for a lifestyle that's a thing of the past. Nowadays sheets cover the furniture and dust the floors. Boards darken arrow slits and some windows, voiding them of purpose, but there are still plenty of paintings to see, and architectural features to analyse. Merlin sketches architraves and column bases, archways and cornices, transoms and brackets. 

Merlin explains their function to him, expands on their aesthetics too. While he draws, he talks about doors, the history of them, doors. The one from Chartres Cathedral, the one of Hagia Sophia, the doors of the Florence baptistery. In antiquity doors for important chambers were often made of stone or bronze, he says, with the Romans preferring bronze. 

Arthur nods and smiles. He asks questions every now and then but can't be sure they're to the point or that they even make sense. He's never dwelt on such aspects of décor before and suspects he has taken the beauty that surrounds him quite for granted. 

When the weather stabilises, they spill outside. They climb on a knoll from which you can see both the castle and the woods that surround it. They're a patch of sweeping greens circling the higher rise of a russet knoll. The forest's deep and intricate. It's been like that for centuries and, Arthur likes to think, will be like that for more to come. Merlin sprawls among banks of tall grass, sketchpad at his side, legs crossed at the ankles. “You were lucky being born here. It's breath-takingly beautiful.”

Arthur inhales; the breeze has a taste to it that is familiar. He can't tell how, only that it is, that no other place smells quite like this. “It has its advantages, yes, but it wasn't always easy.” Arthur takes in the east wing. It's in serious need of repair. So are the granary and much of the central gallery. 

“Is that why you live in Versailles?”

“No.” Arthur compresses his lips. “If you want office, living in Versailles is the thing to do.”

Merlin frowns. “I thought things had changed with the late King's death, Orléans at the Palais Royal, and young King Louis living in the Tuileries.”

“Not as much as you think.” Politics are as complicated as ever, Arthur believes. In his father's day nobles came to live in Versailles, eternal recipients of the Sun King's munificence, orbiting around him, at his beck and call forever and ever, their function becoming obsolete the more they stayed and reaped the rewards of his generosity. Statecraft in action. Now the Regent's in Paris but the changes wrought by the previous administration are still in place. “The focal point has only shifted.”

“Well.” Merlin plucks a flower, smells it, presses it between the pages of his sketchbook. “I only know that if I had this to come back to I would never leave.”

“Was growing up on a farm unpleasant?” 

Merlin eyes grow wide. “Oh no. Not at all. That's not what I was trying to imply.”

“I didn't think you were.” Arthur doesn't think Merlin's talked of his village with anything other than warmth.

Merlin says, “I love my place.”

“I'm sure.”

“I only went away because I couldn't find any work in my tiny village.”

Arthur understands how that would be. Avallon itself doesn't offer much in the way of opportunities for young talent. “Everybody would have done the same.”

“I'm not sure.” Merlin breathes through his nostrils. “But that was the choice I made.”

“You mustn't blame yourself for it.”

“I intend to pay it all back,” Merlin says, a fist opening and closing. “To my village. If this goes well...”

“The Peterhof project.”

Merlin catches his gaze, nods. “Yes, I'm going to give back and--”

Arthur places a hand on Merlin's shoulder. “And?”

“Make a difference.” Merlin sits up. “And if...if I get...” He licks his lips. “There's something I haven't told you.”

Merlin's words sound ominous and Arthur's heart contracts sharply. “What would that be?”

“The reason the Tsar found me at all,” Merlin says, casting his gaze at the horizon. “It's not what you think it is.”

Arthur's brow crumples. He tries to outguess Merlin, fathom what he means before he outright tells him, but he can't. “So what is it?”

“I didn't exactly submit a project,” Merlin says, chewing his lip. “And I didn't try and get an audience.”

“Then how?”

“The Tsar had me investigated.” Merlin rakes his knee up and places his chin on it. “Because of a claim my father made.”

This makes little sense, doesn't match what Merlin's so far told him of his past. “Your father? I assumed he was in England. I'm not sure I follow.”

Merlin turns his head in his direction. “My mother never married. That's why I didn't speak about this before. Some people are so very ready to condemn.”

Arthur flushes. “I never would have judged you – or her.”

“I know now.” Merlin hints at a smile before his face goes serious again. “What I kept to myself is the identity of my father.”

Arthur wants to say something but he doesn't know what and he doesn't wish to prompt Merlin if he doesn't feel like adding more.

Merlin goes on. “He was a Russian Prince. He was visiting Britain incognito and met my mother. Now, of course, I'm illegitimate.”

With old King Louis having many children out of wedlock – at least six by Madame de la Vallière, and more by Montespan – this doesn't sound particularly surprising to Arthur. “So no inheritance.”

“Probably not,” Merlin says, “but when my father found out about me, that I existed, he wrote to the Emperor.”

“To have you legitimised?” King Louis had tried that with the Marly edict, after all. If things had gone as he wished, Toulouse would have become king. Arthur supposes a Russian grandee would think to do the same. “So you can get his title?”

“He couldn't have done that.” Merlin shrugs. “But there's a new law the Tsar passed a few years ago. Estates must be kept whole, and not be splintered, the heir chosen in advance. My father made a will and appointed me. Of course, that alone won't do the trick. But my father petitioned the Tsar. Sent him a letter asking for the legalisation of my adoption. If the Tsar acquiesces...”

“You're the new heir.”

Merlin hums. “That's how I met the Tsar. I was in St Petersburg at the time, trying to get to know the people who'd known my father. And he knocked on my door. Not one of his agents, not one of his spies. The Tsar himself. He was there to make sure, he said. Of what he never specified.”

On the basis of what Merlin's just told him Arthur takes a stab at what he thinks of as the truth. “He sounded you as part of his plan to ensure you were suitable, could possibly make a noble.”

“Yes, probably.”

“I surmise that's how he came to find out about your talents too.”

Merlin gives a short chuckle. “The man has spies. Even before he met me he knew more about my work than my own mother.”

“And if he does make you a prince?”

“I don't think he will,” Merlin says, with a wag of the shoulders.

“But if he should?”

Merlin sighs into the wind. “Well, then I'd try to put the money not tied into the land into my birth village. To help.”

“That seems very commendable.” Many a person Arthur knows would gamble the money away or use it for their own entertainment. Versailles, for one, is a place for luxurious decadence. “So I hope the Tsar does make you your father's heir.”

“Bah, I wouldn't know what to do with it,” Merlin says, and he sounds truly at a loss, unable to fathom such a change in circumstances. “The title, the estate. I only want to be an architect, Arthur. That's what I started out as. I hope the Tsar didn't choose me for the Peterhof project only because I'm a magnate's son.”

“Why would he?” Arthur can see no connection between the two. “If he thought you were incompetent, he wouldn't want you to design his home.”

“Maybe.” Merlin cups his knee with his palm. “I hope that's it.”

“That's it, Merlin.” Arthur makes himself sound sure. “He saw what you could do and wanted that for himself. No other explanation.”

When Merlin looks at him, there's less tension in the lines of his face, and there's a new light in his eyes, brighter, more piercing. “I'll make it the best of my designs.”

“I'm sure you will.”

With the Tsar still in Paris, they can't linger in Avallon for long, but they have one more night. They dine in the grand salon, even if it's just the two of them, one at each end of a long table designed for twenty. When dinner's over, they share some sweet wine by the fire and exchange a few idle words over it. It's all very quieting, very relaxing, and Arthur doesn't feel the obligations of hosting in the same way he does in Versailles. When time comes for them to retire, Merlin says, “Will you have a game of chess in my room?”

Arthur fiddles with his cravat, loosening the knot till he can breathe. “Why, I--”

“I saw a set,” Merlin says, flicking his empty glass about. “Excellent craftsmanship.”

Arthur's mind isn't in the game. He makes mistakes, doesn't play as well as he might. Belatedly, he moves his pawn, which would have been a deft move if Merlin hadn't already shored up his defences. So when his turn comes again, he attempts to make up for his previous blunders. He moves his second piece four ahead one square, attacking Merlin's bishop. “I concede,” Merlin says, eyes crinkling. Making no fuss whatsoever, he moves the bishop back a square. When he realises what Merlin's done, Arthur frowns. Merlin smiles at that and Arthur can't bring himself to mind. Not even when Merlin's white queen slides on to rook five and he says, “Check.” 

“Um,” Arthur says when he loses, “I'm a much better player than that.”

“I'm sure.”

Arthur whistles through his teeth. “Well played though.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, and the smile that ghosts at the corner of his lips is worth a hundred defeats. 

Arthur's in the doorway, ready to retire for the night, when Merlin says, “Thank you.”

“You already said that.” 

Merlin shucks off his jacket and waistcoat and stands in hid shirt sleeves right by the bed. “For taking me here, for showing me this place.”

Arthur dips his head and grunts, drums his fingers on the door's side panel. He wishes he had it in him to tell Merlin that he's happy with his company, that he's made something of his home that it wasn't before, brought a change with him Arthur can't measure but is appreciative of. But the notion of saying as much brings a flush to his face and makes him oddly fidgety. “We'll have to be up bright and early if we want to make it back to Versailles in a reasonable time.”

Merlin's expression goes from merry to sober. “Yes.”

“Good night, Merlin.”

“Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The law Merlin is talking about is the Law of Single Inheritance, which was passed in 1714.


	7. Marly

The Marly chambers are the same as those Madame the Maintenon occupied before moving to the St Cyr convent. Gone are the sacred paintings and the prie-dieux stuck in the corners. Gone are the Christian statuary and the vellum bound editions of the Bible. In their place are nudes, bright paintings showing the backs of bathing nymphs, racy tapestries, ample silk-clothed divans, and ornate footstools. Chandeliers lit by thousand candles brighten a room once illuminated by a few scented tapers.

Girls in transparent nightgowns frolic across the room. They dance to no music, hang from the arms of men who've lost waistcoats and jackets; they top them on divans, the soft round of their breasts hanging out over flimsy layers of transparent linen. Thy sit in their laps on chairs that creak as they move, the gossamer spun of their negligées rucked all the way up, past their hips, showing a length of thigh, the crease that from hip goes to pelvis.

Two young women twirl past him, goblets in their hands, the contents sloshing in an aromatic spill of drink. One winks at him, reaches out with her hand. It's rosy, the nails trimmed, the knuckles standing out in a ridge of tendon and bone.

Arthur's making a sign with his head no, when de Blouin steams over to him. “You must stop this.”

The girls disperse and Arthur says, “So this is the emergency you had me over about?”

“Yes.” de Blouin wrings his hands, scowls at the people brushing past him. “How can you stand it!”

Arthur lifts his shoulders. “I think we've already talked about this.”

“Can't you at least make them move!” de Blouin says, eyes wide and mouth round. “Send them back to Paris?”

“Are you suggesting I send the Tsar and his retinue packing?”

“But we're in Madame de Maintenon's old apartments!” de Blouin indicates their surroundings. “She is such a pious woman. Surely, she wouldn't want an orgy to take place in her former residence!”

“I can sympathise with the notion.” Arthur suspects Madame de Maintenon of having no interest in the fate of apartments she willingly gave up when she sought refuge in St Cyr. He's sure that de Blouin's indignation is wholly his and has nothing to do with the will of the Marquise, who's far more interested in appearing steadfastly religious so as to give her children an appearance of legitimacy than in poking her nose in the affairs of the court. “But this house isn't mine and the guests' are the state's.” 

de Blouin becomes purple. “But this is outrageous! This is scandalous! Sex! Sex in the open! Where once a woman –albeit of formerly loose morals – lived, a lady whom the king elevated by dint of his company and exalted by virtue of marriage.” He stutters. “I say, this is wrong. The King purified this place. And now it's sullied again!”

Arthur doesn't know how to tackle the jumble of contradiction that lies at the heart of de Blouin's language, his hypocrisy. He doesn't need to, because Merlin saunters in from the adjoining room, and Arthur says, “If you'll excuse me.”

He and Merlin meet in the middle. Merlin has a glass in his hands. It's half full of some kind of white wine that has the fragrance of roses. “Arthur, happy to see you.” He smiles, a flush climbing up his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I was summoned by the Governor, who thinks the events unfolding here will corrupt all present,” Arthur says, tilting his head an inch in de Blouin's direction. “What are you doing here yourself?” It's only a beat too late when Arthur remembers the girls, the fact that this reception has been devised to please the Tsar's retinue, of which Merlin is part.

“I don't know exactly.” Merlin takes a sip of the wine, watches the goings on, an amused quirk to his lips. “I was up at the palace, consulting with the Tsar, when Count Tolstoy came in. He saw me up to my neck in first-stage blueprints, and invited me along. I didn't know how to say no.”

A girl dances past. She's entirely naked and candlelight makes of her body a work of art, chiaroscuros playing on her skin. She stops between Merlin and Arthur, cocks her head, grabs the former by the neck and kisses him. She opens his mouth with hers, and Arthur sees their tongues meet in the middle. 

Arthur's skin burns and he wants to look away, past the crush of mouths, past the tangle that they make, but he can't quite. His heart punches out and his body feels empty, hollow, weightless to extremes.

When the kiss ends, the girl smiles, cups Merlin cheek and flits off. Before she can disappear into the adjoining chamber, she turns around. Merlin pivots too. She waves and he toasts her, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers. “That's never happened to me before.”

“You can follow her if you want,” Arthur says, his tones lowered to cover the grit in his voice. “I don't intend to stay long either way and...”

“No.” Merlin steps closer. “No, I--” People circle past them and Merlin gives him an alarmed look. “Come outside,” he says.

They move past the room's crowds and towards the door, file down a set of narrow stairs, and end up in a courtyard at the centre of which a tree grows. It mushrooms over the enclosure, its branches twisting outwards in crooked splendour.

Merlin says, “It's a little new to me, all of this.”

Though he doesn't exactly want to look in the direction of Madame de Maintenon's apartments, from where laughter and music issue, Arthur looks away. “I can understand.” Merlin is not a courtier, not yet, and this lifestyle cannot be one he's used to. “But you should feel free to enjoy the night, to not be set back by--”

“Thank you.” Merlin flashes him a smile. “Honestly, thank you.”

The softness in Merlin's expression makes Arthur double take. He focuses on Merlin and the sight knocks Arthur right off his feet. It ushers in a wave of grief he understands very little. Merlin is fine and Arthur is too and there's no reason for the coils of apprehension that have flourished inside him and yet they're there, tangling and twisting, marooning him on a no man's land of incomprehension.

“Just go back and--” Plenty of words surface for Arthur to use but he can't pick the right one, so he trails off. He's trying to reformulate, when Merlin darts forwards and matches his lips to his. 

The kiss starts soft with a bend of lips on lips. It deepens to a slide of tongue on tongue. Because of it, Arthur's core mellows and his heart stumbles into a racing rhythm. “What,” he says, because he can't convey how much of a shift this is and he needs to take a moment to understand it. “How?”

“The usual way, I believe.” Merlin breathes the words out against his mouth. “I've wanted you for quite some time, been dancing around the notion a while. And this...” He botches a grin. “This was my way of showing you.” He grows red but his gaze stays on Arthur. “I'd like to spend the night with you. If you'd like?”

“Yes.” Arthur can know no hesitation. He wants to have Merlin too badly for that. He doesn't need to ask, or parse, or demand specifics. Somehow he's moved from a partial understanding of his own desires to a clear knowledge of their pointedness. “Yes.”

“Not here though.” Merlin throws a look at the lighted windows of the old Maintenon residence. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

Arthur understands the urge. They could find a room in the mansion but they would have no privacy, they would have to mingle with the rest of the Tsar's retinue, put on some kind of face for them. And what role would they have to play? Two men in lust? Two souls in search of love? No, he wants his interactions with Merlin to be unblemished by court gossip. “My apartments in Versailles.”

The drive over is silent but not tense. Merlin stares at the clouds; Arthur at the pattern of the upholstery. Wind rustles in the palace gardens' hedges, steals in thorugh open sets of French windows. Arthur's rooms lie on the second floor of one of the side wings. A large marble staircase with gilded banisters leads up to them. The door opens with no noise and closes with a thunk.

As soon as they're alone, they kiss. Arthur slips his hands in Merlin's hair and takes his mouth and rubs their lips together until Arthur's heart pounds hard and he's got little breath left to call his own. Merlin licks at his lips, a dab, followed by another one, and Arthur can't help but open up. As they kiss, wetly, deeply, they strip each other's jackets and waistcoats off. Their breathing coming fast, they slip their hands under their shirts.

As he touches him, Arthur feels the warmth of Merlin's skin, the contraction of his muscles under his palm, the yield of his flanks just under his ribs, and the hardness of the jutting notches of his spine. Unable to stop himself, he latches onto Merlin's neck, nosing under his jaw, kissing it with his mouth open, breathing against it when Merlin's fumbles for the tangle of laces fastening Arthur's breeches.

When the heel of Merlin's hand catches against Arthur's cock, Arthur's breath stutters in his lungs. As Merlin walks him backwards towards the bed, Arthur clutches at his waist, bites and licks and scrabbles with his hands to pull Merlin to him.

Arthur plunks down on the mattress first, goes down as if the legs have been cut down from under him. Merlin goes on his knees, slips between the vee of his thighs, and pulls at the fabric of Arthur's trousers. So as to allow them to come off easily, Arthur levers off. Breeches, shoes and stockings drop off in one go. Merlin leaves them lying in a tangle somewhat east of Arthur's feet. 

With Arthur naked from the waist down, Merlin wraps his hands around him, strokes him to full and nearly painful hardness. When Arthur chokes on a moan, Merlin relents with the friction. He thumbs the foreskin back, shifting the hood up and down, rubs the skin against the length beneath, and places the damp, spongy head on his tongue. 

His muscles on lock-down, Arthur closes his eyes, grabs at the meat of Merlin's shoulders and tries not to thrust. Merlin chases the vein with the tip of his tongue, the pattern of it, leaving a wet trail that makes Arthur shiver, starts a meandering up and down motion that strips Arthur of understanding, of coherence.

Arthur's stomach clenches hard and breathing becomes something akin to taking a stab to the lungs. He goes on fire and his heart races and he grabs for Merlin, the line of his shoulder, the strands of his hair, the nape of his neck, but he doesn't get enough purchase, not enough of what he wants. This time he does rock his hips forward. 

With a wet sound Merlin backs off. His chest rises and falls with the breathlessness of him and then without any warning he bends and takes Arthur in his mouth. This time he goes all the way down, hands at Arthur's hips, his tongue wet under Arthur's cock, the clench of his throat all heat. Arthur can't think, can't process. What Merlin's doing strips him of all that he is, the touch of his tongue a brand that lashes him raw, whips up his spine like pure lightning. Arthur sinks into himself, into the mindlessness of jerking hips and rutting motions.

Right before he comes, his muscles seize in a purely involuntary spasm. When it ends, he shudders like a newly born colt and spills, a lightness sweeping him off his feet.

With little energy left, he slumps over Merlin, one hand at his neck, the other on his shoulder, their faces so close their noses touch.

"Was that alright?" Merlin asks, his cheek grazing Arthur's. “Was that what you wanted?”

Arthur laughs, he's on cloud nine, seventh heaven, and can't wholly contain himself, but nonetheless makes an effort to sound reasonable. “Yes, yes. You can say that it was alright.”

Merlin draws back, doubt painted in clear brush strokes on his face. 

Arthur cards his hand through his hair, combs it back, away from his sweat-slick forehead. When his heart has stopped its racing and he can only feel it bump from time to time and in reaction to Merlin's expressions, he finds it safe to say, “Come over here.”

He pulls Merlin up, takes pleasure in unbuttoning his shirt. As Arthur yanks it down in hefty pulls, Merlin's chest fills and his shoulders bulge, the rounding of bone showing over the tautness of flesh. His trousers and smalls Arthur pulls down with two tugs. And then he looks up at the whole of Merlin's nakedness as it now presents itself to him, at the pallor of his skin, the neatness of his clearly outlined flanks, the cut of muscle at the joint of hip and belly, the stiffness and redness of his cock as it points upwards.

With a wave of nearly desperate, soul drowning longing, Arthur roams his hands up Merlin's heaving sides, across the span of his lower back. He kisses his belly, sucks at the indent between hip and pelvic bone. He scoots backwards on the bed, legs wide open, and pulls Merlin forward, in between the clench of them.

With a sob, a moan, Merlin settles on top of him. His body is fever hot, his eyes a little wild, spirited, the pupil lost to a storm. Arthur caresses his flank, circles his palm round his cock, gives it a rub that has Merlin emitting a wet sound and leaking semen. 

He takes him in a kiss, a wild riotous kiss Merlin can't keep pace with because he's thrusting, spurting pre-come against the grain of Arthur's skin, stuttering his hips in a wild disarray of motion. 

When they come up for breath, panting in each other's mouths, Arthur says, “Oil up.”

There's a bottle on the cabinet by the bed, the contents of which Merlin fumblingly pours in his palms. He, however, spills the rest of them, and Arthur grabs the container before they can waste all of the lotion. By the time he's done, his hands are smeared with the oil, so it's easy to take Merlin in hand and s him up.

When Arthur wets the rim of the crown, Merlin's jaw clicks shut and he breathes through his nostrils hard. He's not the only one affected, because Arthur's skin has tightened into goose flesh once again, and expectation burns low in his belly, under his skin. He's feeling on the edge, raw, naked in ways that go beyond the flesh. 

“Here, come here,” he tells Merlin when he resettles him on top, when he guides him inside, after he's wetted himself so thoroughly he's practically dripping.

"God, yes." Merlin's only in by the tip, but Arthur can feel him, the hardness of his, the flesh-hot warmth of him. “Arthur, God.”

Arthur squeezes Merlin's haunch, propels him forward heel on calf. "Indeed.” He bites Merlin's chin, at the jut of his jaw, scrapes his teeth along the outline of it. “This is good.”

With trembling arms, Merlin braces on top of him, shoves, flexes his spine into a sharp thrust that brings him midway in. “Arthur, God, Arthur. You're...” Their eyes meet and colour rises in Merlin's face. “You're a work of art.”

“Only you'd say that.” Arthur chuckles, but the truth is that he's obfuscating, because Merlin's breaking his very heart, sending the chambers of it into overwork, as if he hasn't just had his pleasure, as if he isn't boneless with the beauty that just was. “Only you.”

Merlin centres a kiss on his mouth. Just as he thrusts, he dips his tongue in for a lick.

Arthur cranes his head off the pillow to suck at his mouth, at his tongue.

Merlin withdraws, rocks back in, lightning rocketing up Arthur's spine, dissolving it in a treacle sea of warmth.

"You're good at this,” Arthur says, eyes reduced to slits, jaw tight against the spark of pleasure-pain that Merlin kindles in him. “You're good at sex.”

Merlin's body clenches on a forward stuttering of hips. "I'm not..." Merlin loses the thread of what he wanted to say, starts again. “I don't have tonnes of practice--” He breathes hard, pulls out and then works himself back in. “I'm... heads in the clouds. Reference books. Buildings. Castles in … in the air. Always--” His mouth twists, a flash of an expression he hides his head in his shoulder. “Somewhere else.”

“Then you're quite a natural,” Arthur says, urging Merlin forward, on an inward stroke that's slow and lingering and burns everything in its path. It etches a wild burst of love on Arthur's skin, the deepest layers of it, where you can't see, written large in a scrolling script that makes him Merlin's. “You and this love making of yours.”

Merlin laughs but the laughter dies on a moan, one he releases out of parted lips. He's got his eyes near closed then, sweat weighing on his lids, dampening his hair, the dips in his back.

They don't speak much after that. Arthur roams his hands up Merlin's back, counts the bumps of his spine one by one, gathers Merlin's rump in his hand, parting cheeks, a finger circling Merlin's rim, pushing in against the clench of muscle. In another aimless bout of hand wandering, he slicks his palms on Merlin's sweat, slip sliding in it, feeling the pools of it that gather at his shoulder blades, at the small of his back, on the back of his upper thighs, where his flesh is soft. 

A muscle spasm, a gasp, a lazy kiss that tangles their tongues together, that develops out of open mouths. As he strokes himself in and out of him, Merlin's back's flexing in a steady rhythm, a see-saw Arthur can almost predict, until his tempo gets faster. Merlin snaps his hips then, chokes off a sob, bites Arthur's lips, chin. They bump noses, and Merlin angles his face for a meeting of lips, slow, soft, even as his lower body loses the plot in snaps that make Arthur spread his legs wider, that have him gasping for that flare of brightness that, yes, gets him hard again. 

He bears down against the pressure that is Merlin, against the patterns his hips weave. Merlin makes muffled, choked sounds. He buries some against Arthur's lips and some against Arthur's throat. A few he silences by biting his arm, and always, always, they're moving one against the other, rock to shore, harder, faster. Arthur can feel it in the lashings of Merlin's muscles, in the locking of his own, in the ripples of skin against skin, in the connection of their bodies. 

Hands seek purchase, grasp; bodies arch and buck as sinew tightens.

Once more Merlin presses close, sticky belly to sticky belly, Arthur's cock in between, getting wetter by the second, pulsing out thin strings of come as Merlin thrusts through shudders Arthur wants to soothe but can't quite, because he's lost too and he's never experienced something quite like this before, something that's shocked his flesh into so much pleasure and yet changed the fabric of him in ways that have nothing to do with physicality.

By all rights he ought to feel vulnerable, exposed, with a layer scratched raw, fleeced off him, so he's transparent and quite defenceless. But Merlin slumps against him and sobs and Arthur feels he has to be strong, that he must uphold them, the daring gesture that this was, the baring of themselves that this turned out to be.

When Arthur eases on him out of an instinctive clench that could have been almost designed to keep him inside, Merlin's breath hitches. He places his hand on Arthur's chest, his head on the pillow, so very shy of Arthur's shoulder.

“This was the most beautiful night I've ever had,” Merlin says, as if it's the kind of thing you actually confess, instead of keeping it to yourself, a secret never meant to be revealed. That someone could open oneself up to such broadsides of pain is a gesture that inspires a flare of surprised respect in Arthur.

And while Arthur can't quite bring himself to say anything similar aloud, he wraps an arm around Merlin, draws a breath, and manhandles him close.


	8. A New Day

The room is bright with the May sun. It filters in between the brocade hangings, weaves through the fabric, tingeing the air orange and gold. Arthur stirs, stretches, bones popping and muscles loosening. He turns on his side and his legs tangle with Merlin's. He breathes then, a sharp inhale, a loud exhale, and tries to control the wild clenching of his heart. He places a hand on his chest, moves it up and down in motions meant to soothe. They don't do much, his heart in this constant state of waxing, throbbing, pumping emotion through hid body. At most his movements rustle the sheets.

Merlin wakes with some blinking of the eyes. When he focuses on Arthur, he smiles. It's not a toothy smile, or a blinding one, but it's got a softness to it that Arthur hasn't seen before. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.” Arthur's voice is husky with emotion. 

“Fancy waking here.”

“Fancy waking to you in my bed.” Arthur places a hand low on Merlin's belly. 

Merlin leans towards him with his whole frame, gives him a wet kiss and smiles. “I wish I could stay.”

“Then stay,” Arthur says, taking Merlin's lip in his mouth, raking his teeth along a corner of his jaw. “I'm not kicking you out.”

“I have to go over some draft with the Tsar,” Merlin says with a groan. “And the emperor likes to wake early.”

“You must have five minutes.” 

Merlin throws his head back in the pillow and chuckles. “What for? Breakfast?”

“Of a kind,” Arthur says, turning Merlin onto his belly and straddling him.

Merlin gasps into the pillow, chuckles. Arthur kisses his nape, his shoulders, runs his palms along the back of his arms, and the soft of his armpits, and Merlin mellows into the mattress. Notch by notch, Arthur lines kisses down his spine. He skims his lips across Merlin's tail-bone, noses lower, opens him up and sucks his rim into his mouth. As Merlin writhes, Arthur stabs his tongue inside. It's a slow penetrative motion that ends with Arthur circling a ridge of skin with his tongue. 

Merlin shouts, “I'm too close, I'm too--” and he shudders underneath him, broken judders that have the quality of spasms to them. 

When Merlin's oil-wet and spit-wet, Arthur enters him. It's such a hot clench, Arthur can't breathe, can't take it. Knowing he can't last long, he lowers himself, so he's blanketing Merlin, and makes his strokes shallow. It's still too good. It still sends his breathing haywire and knits his belly tight. On the crest of that feel-good sweep of emotion, he loses control. He stutters on a thrust. He's almost slipped all the way out when he orgasms, so his come smears the folds of Merlin's skin.

Panting, he sags on top of Merlin, who grunts, but doesn't shrug him off.

The door creaks open and, though his eyes are closed to slits, Arthur recognises the tread of his valet.

“Out!” he says, voice tense with the prickling of wounded intimacy. “Out.”

The door closes with a snap.

“I've still got to go,” Merlin says into the pillow. “I'd love to stay, but I've got to go.”

“A while longer.” Arthur doesn't want to move. They're growing sticky and their sweat is cooling on them and they should probably wash. But Arthur wants to feel Merlin's skin, the shape of him, the angles of him, the textures of him. “We can have one more minute.”

Merlin moves a hand outwards, toys with the pillow case, exhales. “I want hours more. I want days. Why are you making me want so much?” Merlin rounds his shoulders inwards. “Why are you so compelling?”

Merlin has posed his question with levity, so Arthur answers in kind, even if a small part of him wants to tackle the subject seriously. “I'm just that good for you.”

Merlin shifts, dislodges him, fits their palms together and laces their fingers. “That you are.”

After they've exchanged a kiss, Merlin leaves the bed. He pours water from pitcher to basin and washes. Arthur oughtn't watch, should allow him some privacy, but Merlin is nonchalant about his nudity, smiles when he matches gazes with Arthur. He dresses in full view, borrowing Arthur's shirt, and botching the knot of his cravat. He smiles goofily at that, shrugs his shoulders, does it in a way that allows for no barriers, no misconception of formality. Arthur can't take his eyes off him. Merlin comes sit on the bed, palms his shoulders, and pulls him in for a kiss.

“Have something to eat before you go,” Arthur says.

“Can't.” Merlin leans his brow against Arthur's. “I only took a moment to do this.”

Arthur sinks into another kiss, into a brush of lips on lips. It's fleeting, but there's something easy about it, natural, bracing.

Merlin returns it motion for motion. “I'm already late,” he says, once his lips have become a little fatter from all the friction. “Duty calls.”

He's gone before Arthur can properly get out of bed. The mattress bears the indent of him and the sheets his smell. In the absence of the real thing, it's good enough.


	9. Spring Nights

The Tsar moves from Bourgogne's apartments and into the Trianon. It's a larger, more private, and more beautiful building than the set of rooms originally allotted to him. Russian magnates, guards and envoys are to be met in the gardens en route to it. It's where Arthur crosses paths with Merlin most of the time too. Merlin walks in the wake of the group, taking note of his surroundings, or promenades himself with the Tsar, talking in his ear, gesturing broadly at the landscape of Versailles, likely expanding on topics Arthur can only guess at. The beauty of form, the suggestions of shape, the nature of inspiration.

In Paris they meet in salons. Merlin plays faro at tables crowded by noblewomen who gamble heavily, staking money as well jewellery on this or that card, on this or that outcome. Diamond necklaces and ruby bracelets rest on the baize-covered surfaces, piles of louis totter golden by their elbows. Even as they wager their fortunes on the luck of the draw, the ladies talk art and politics, enquire about England and Russia, and the customs of each respective country. Merlin, Arthur notices, only ventures small stakes and otherwise merely indulges in conversation.

Meanwhile, Arthur plays billiards with old aristocratic codgers who are of the same generation as the late monarch. He drinks Madeira to forget their idle comments, their conservative tirades, their reminiscences of youth, a gilded one spent at the side of old King Louis. Arthur tastes the sweet taste of grapes that have ripened in temperate climates and it brings with it partial oblivion, the capacity to bear their talk with more equanimity. Often he gets stuck in conversation with gaggles of princes of the blood. When the nobles pause for breath, Parisian bureaucrats who serve with an eye to self-aggrandisement step into the fray, and relieve them of their conversational duties. Their talk is of business ventures and capital, trade and commerce with the companies that have established themselves in the East.

Arthur seeks refuge in empty corners every chance he gets.

These nights spent so close and yet so far apart seem long and mostly uneventful, like repetitions of a script Arthur has played all his life, do overs that have lost all meaning, But they're a small price to pay for what happens next.

At the end of each Arthur and Merlin reconvene in their quarters, either at the palace or in the village of Versailles. They have sex. Sometimes they reach for each other's bodies as soon as they're alone. Other nights they spend talking, in bed or out of it, sitting by the windows and watching moonlight bathe the view. Merlin discusses the concept of beauty, of form, of art. One night he grows serious and silent. He bites his lips and hums and, when Arthur asks what's put him in that mood, he says nothing. By and by something settles in him and he grows light-hearted again and, when he does, he says that Arthur matches his idea of it, of beauty. Arthur tickles his flanks with his foot, tells him to cut it. When Merlin guffaws all low under his breath, Arthur says, “Seriously though.”

“Seriously.” Merlin turns his face into the light pouring in from the window.

Arthur can only respond by changing the subject. Not a one immediately occurs to him though, so he does a lot of hawing and hemming, a lot of extemporising. But then he mentions his childhood, expands on his past, and he knows that that is what he wants to talk about. He shares his memories of the old King, of Versailles as it had been before his death, and of the people of had been alive back then. He describes his father, how strict he'd been, definitely old guard, fond of the past, but ultimately loving. He mentions the mother he barely remembers. And then he talks of Avallon for, somehow, it seems important that he do so, that Merlin hear about it. “It wasn't much different in the old days,” he says, “what's in disrepair now was crumbling when I was a child too. But back then I didn't see all of that. I didn't understand the nature of time passing. I simply loved my home.”

“I would probably have too.”

“I played in every nook and cranny,” Arthur says, seeing himself as he was as a child, how he was when he ran around with nary a care, remembering Avallon as it had once been. “When I was very young, I thought there were witches in the towers, and that I was meant to fight them.”

“Really?”

Arthur nods broadly. “I had a wooden practice sword and everything.”

“And were there?” Merlin waves a hand about. “Witches?”

“I'm afraid not.” Arthur chuckles. “It was only the wind howling.”

“Mmmm.” Merlin watches him keenly, a warm, subdued light in his eyes. “Tell me more.”

“I thought the stables housed destriers that had fought in legendary wars long past, with Joan of Arc maybe,” Arthur says. “And that a dragon hid under the castle's foundations.”

“You had quite the imagination.” Merlin knocks shoulders with him.

“Yes.” Arthur hums low, under his breath. “I suppose that place is just a piece of who I am, so I made it mine in all ways. With stories.”

Merlin says nothing, takes his hand, and presses it.

The next morning, when Arthur wakes up, Merlin's not in the bedroom. He's in the next chamber but one, sitting at the desk, a cup at his side, a pencil in his hand, his fingers stained with lead. He's perfecting a draft. Arthur places a hand on his shoulder and watches the assemblage of lines thicken. “Is that--”

“Yes,” Merlin says, looking up at him. “Avallon. I thought I'd make a few sketches in case you ever wanted to refurbish it.”

“It's--” As warmth floods into him, Arthur's thought processes stumble to a halt and he can't put two words together.

“Of course, these are all suggestions.” Merlin makes air gestures. “You can take them on board or not, do this or not. But I was thinking, maybe a few years down the line, you'd like to renovate and in that case it'd be good to have some plans to fall back on.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, at last. “It... It's a very good plan.” It's much more than that but Arthur can't say it. He knows he can't match Merlin in terms of openness, never will be able to, for that easy candour is not in him. But he owes Merlin for the heart-rending gesture that this is, so he makes himself add, “It means a lot to me.”

Merlin beams. It's not subtle and it's not reined in. His eyes disappear in a sea of crinkles, and his cheeks hollow under the pressure of a smile. “I'm glad you don't think I overstepped.”

“I'm quite--” Arthur moistens his lips. “Quite glad to have this.”

“I can draw more,” Merlin says, burying both hands in his hair and looking at his blueprints. “I can jot down at least four variants. I--”

“All in good time.” Avallon castle's been there for centuries and Arthur's sure it will stand for more. Even if Merlin doesn't finish his drawings today, the seed of his idea has bees sawn, and it won't go away. “I'd rather... I'd rather spend the day with you. Unless, of course, you're busy.”

“No.” Merlin places his sketches in the drawer. “I'm not.” He stands, takes Arthur's face in his hands, and makes their lips collide in a soft brush of flesh. “ The day is ours. All ours.”


	10. Choisy

Though they can carve days out for themselves and spend most nights side by side, they can't forget the world around them. It would be folly to. Peter might grow unhappy with Merlin and Arthur does want to honour his family name and be the best Director of the King's Buildings he can possibly be. 

Most mornings Merlin has to spend with the Tsar. Meanwhile, Arthur sits in an office overlooking the park, signing permits and grants for the building of this or that Versailles-enhancing feature. 

The nights, too, aren't entirely their own. They get daily invitations for this or that event and only a few of them can be passed by. Most they can't turn down. It would be an insult, an affront, or a snubbing of people who have less social clout that Arthur himself, and that as such, Merlin would never contemplate. “I know what it means to be the odd one out, the one with no standing.”

They attend salons and go see plays. The salons are full of aristocrats dressed to the nines. They mill around, ladies sporting tall wigs, men with their hands under their sashes, their chests sticking out. Free thinkers and philosophers take the stand, discuss causes célèbres among themselves and start debates with the attendees. When they engage people in conversation, they expand on theories that would be frowned upon at court, but there's no clamouring against them, no hackles rise. Questions flourish instead, and murmurs of approval sound across the salon. Merlin is entranced, Arthur can tell.

Their theatre outings are fundamentally different, more light-hearted, though by no means less impactful. The actors are all beautiful and resplendent, dressed in aristorcats' hand-me-downs so they can easily pass for generals and princes, gods and goddesses, heroes of antiquity. Their diction is clear, their language has the cadence of poetry.

Whenever they witness the end of an outstanding play, Merlin stands and claps until his palms smart. Arthur does too.

They invariably get back so late at night, the sun is always about to give way to the moon.

June replaces May and the days grow longer, hotter, have a hint of summer to them. It's in the air, in the flowery scent of of it, in the freshness of it. Because the day is so glorious, unclouded, and with the sun brightly shining, the Tsar decides to go rowing on the Seine. 

A flotilla of boats glide by on the water, catching the current as the river sparkles and murmurs. It's such a hot spring, the banks are already a deep green, blindingly verdant, with grasses growing tall and sprinkled with dew. Insects buzz loud and the breeze is gentle, no more than a caress, cooling the air from the hot brand of the sun. 

As the river snakes forward, its waters bubble faster. When they come upon the castle, all smooth stone and solid columns, dormer windows peeking from a wide slate roof, the Tsar stands. The boat he's on rocks but doesn't capsize. The Tsar shouts, “We're stopping here.”

From under her parasol, the Comtesse de Lannion leans close to Arthur and murmurs, “He can't. That's against protocol.”

Merlin catches that and asks, “Why would that be?”

“Because Choisy belongs to the Princesse de Conti,” the Comtesse de Lannion says. “She's one of the late king's daughters by Madame de Montespan, and a princess of the blood.”

Merlin frowns. “Why wouldn't the emperor be allowed to see her?”

“Etiquette,” Arthur answers. “It's quite convoluted.”

Arthur can see that Merlin has failed to grasp all the intricacies of whats's considered accepted behaviour at court. He doesn't blame him. The older Arthur gets, the more obscure the rules become. However, he has no time to explain them to him as the boat is pulling to shore and they're about to disembark. 

A lady stalks down the garden path in satin slippers. Her hair is powdered grey and gathered in tight ringlets that fall over her shoulders and bounce as she moves. There are no lines on her face and her eyes spark with some sort of good humour that's at odds with the subdued, painstakingly elegant way she moves. In fact, though the hem of her dress brushes against the trimmed grass, her feet barely seem to strike ground. The Tsar kisses the hand she extends to him. On her fingers rings shimmer. 

The Tsar says, “Pardon the intrusion, my lady. I'm but a wanderer from distant shores, awed by the beauty of your house. I only intended to see it a moment but, if I'm not welcome, my friends and I will remove ourselves. Give but the order and we'll decamp.”

Her dress rustling, the golden threads in the embroidery catching the sunlight, the Princesse de Conti curtsies. “My Lord, you're welcome.”

The Princesse shows them the house and the gardens, the conservatories, and the walks that lead to the river. When they've ambled past the stream's bend, they decide it's time to make it back. They head towards the house, the bulk of it reappearing the moment they move past the waterway's loops. They have tea in the open, on tables on the lawn, the China's enamel glinting in the sunlight.

On the Tsar's urging, they tackle the maze. Walls of greenery surround them, tall and lush, made of broad leaves with thick stems and twigs, branches that twist into each other, contort into impenetrable tangles. No matter how thick these walls are, they're trimmed at the top, symmetric, squared into shape. They smell of mint and resin, flowery and balmy. 

They walk in sunlight, the soil warm at their feet, packed earth the colour of terracotta.

Some members of their party veer west, some turn east. 

Soon Merlin and Arthur are alone, the path extending in arches of foliage before them. 

“So,” Arthur says, kicking at the gravel. “The Tsar's stay is drawing to an end.”

“Last I heard he intended to leave on the twentieth.” Merlin locks his hands behind his back. “He mentioned Rheims. I think he wants to see the cathedral.”

“And you're going.” Arthur slows his pace and stares straight ahead.

“To Rheims?”

Back brushing against a mass of foliage, Arthur stops. “To Rheims. To Russia.”

“I'm going to Russia, yes,” Merlin says.

Arthur reprises walking. 

“I have to do it,” Merlin calls after him. “I have to see to the job.”

Arthur stops in his tracks and hangs his head. “I know. I understand.”

“No, you don't.” There's anguish in Merlin's tone, a deep well of sadness. “You don't understand how much I don't want to go. How much I want to stay.”

Arthur turns a notch. “You--”

“I want to stay and be with you.” Gravel crunches under Merlin's weight. “But I must go and test my skills. If I don't, I'll never know whether I'm up to the challenge or only backing down because deep down I know I'm not good enough for the task. I'll never know why I was chosen.”

Arthur is aware of that and the truth of it is he would never want to deny Merlin his stab at fulfilment. Besides, his talents deserve recognition. But there's a small part of Arthur that can't bear the thought of parting ways with Merlin, that flinches at the very idea of it, his body shrivelling at the bleakness of a future without Merlin's companionship. “I know and I do wish you all the good luck in the world.”

“Don't you”-- Merlin starts then stops himself.

“Don't I what?” This time Arthur spins fully round, so he's facing Merlin again, so he can take in his tense expression and misty eyes. 

“I don't know.” Merlin's shoulders slump. “I was hoping that maybe...”

Arthur wishes that Merlin would speak freely, because these half sentences are ploughing holes right into his chest. But he must admit he hasn't been very open himself and can thus understand why Merlin's being reticent. He breathes in and out and says, “That maybe?”

“That maybe you'd be willing to find a way.”

“A way?” Hopes floods Arthur with the lightness of sunlight.

“I must go,” Merlin says, his lashes flickering as he blinks. “But I can come back from time to time.”

“I could,” Arthur says, unable to ignore the swell of emotion that fills his ribcage, “come visit.”

“The Tsar is building a new city.” Merlin lips quirk. His eyes take to shining. “Petersburg. I think you'd like it.”

Arthur smiles. “I think I would.”

“Then you should most definitely try and visit.”

Before Arthur can answer, Count Dogouriki and the princess' lady in waiting stumble onto the path, laughing and questioning each other as to which direction to take next. 

Merlin and Arthur drop the subject.

Merlin says, “If you'll allow me, mademoiselle, I think I know how to clear this maze.”

Merlin is right; he does know how to get them out. When the lady praises him for his daring rescue, he tells her that there are only so many types of mazes. They all come with numbered layouts. “It wasn't hard to figure out which one this one came closest to.” The lady remains impressed, however, and relays the news to her mistress. The Princess says, “How come you're so knowledgeable about mazes, sir?”

The tsar answers on Merlin's behalf. “The man is my architect.”

“Oh,” the Princess says, flipping her parasol, “that must mean he's very good at what he does.”

Before parting ways with their host, they take a last stroll along the river, where the grass is greener and flowers grow with wild abandon. When they leave, the sky is streaked with pink.


	11. Burgundy Idyll

When the Tsar goes to Rheims, Merlin joins Arthur in Avallon. It's only for a few days, after which he'll rejoin the Emperor on his journey eastwards, but it's enough for Arthur. Almost enough. He counts the moments at his disposal, finds himself both living them and enjoying them from some kind of periphery of the soul, from the outside, treasuring them against a future that will be empty of their appeal. Yet he appreciates them too, stores them in his memory one by one, tagging them for easier cataloguing, doing so with an attention he's never given anything before, for as few and precious as they are, he wouldn't give them up for the world. 

They do consciously try and make the most of their time together. Perhaps that's wrong, or counter-productive. Maybe that'll make them suffer more in the long run, but that's how they tacitly tackle the issue.

Arthur accompanies Merlin on rides in the forest, and takes him into the village, shows him the old church with its slim bell tower and squat foundations. He leads him around the market, which is full of stalls replete with wares from all corners of the region. He guides him up narrow climbing roads and points out the most picturesque buildings to him, the low stone houses, the seat of the aldermen of old, the mills. He shepherds him onto the fields so Merlin can watch some of the earliest corn batches being reaped. When Merlin sees the farmers at work, he joins in, and at length gets Arthur to cooperate too, sleeves rolled up, dirt staining his fingers, the sun on his back. When they see their lord, the peasants tip their hats off and nod their heads, all markers of ancient ritual, but they also look at him with new shows of respect. The light in their eyes certainly morphs, warms. Arthur wishes he had thought to do something like this before.

So as to allow Merlin to take in everything that is characteristic of the area, Arthur takes him on a visit of the vineyards that coast the south side of his property. They're somewhat famous and though Merlin's more at home when it comes to brewing beer, Arthur thinks the visit something of a necessity when one's making an effort to know Bourgogne. The grapes there are too small, greenish, decidedly not yet ripe. And yet they have a beauty to them that makes Arthur pause. Merlin tells him that he wishes he could draw. 

“You can,” Arthur says, unsure why Merlin's lamenting the lack of a skill he actually possesses.

Merlin disappears behind a wall of vine stalks. “Buildings. Not nature. Not... people.”

Arthur wishes he could see Merlin so as to be able to read his expression. “And is that what you want?” 

“Right in this moment?” Merlin answers, from somewhere down-field. “Yes, yes, it is is.”

They walk around rows of vines, grazing past hanging bunches, climbing hills and taking rests by the brooks that flood the area.

That night Arthur makes a point of dropping a miniature of himself among a bunch of Merlin's shirts. At first he hesitates because that seems vain of him, somewhat entitled. But then he remembers Merlin's tone from earlier that day and how he put up a shield between them and thinks that this might be the best way to cut around all and any embarrassment on both their parts. On the following day Merlin doesn't mention finding the piece of jewellery, nor does he give it back. It just disappears. 

Arthur hopes that was the right overture to make.

They don't have separate chambers. Merlin shares Arthur's. He gets one half of the bed, the trunk closest to it, and a drawer all to himself. In it he puts pine cones he finds in the forest. He says they make his shirts smell nicer. Arthur insists that that's not possible. “It's not like it's lavender.” Merlin only smirks as if he knows better and Arthur has no heart to keep harping on on the subject. “Have it that way, but when your shirts are all covered in pollen, you'll rue it.” Laughing, he tackles Merlin to the bed and covers his body with kisses.

It can't last forever. Arthur doesn't say anything, can't bring himself to. It wouldn't be fair and he's not sure talking would be of any benefit to him, that it won't break him down, or do the same to Merlin.

So when Merlin mounts on the carriage that will take him to Strasbourg and from thence in stages to Russia, Arthur makes it a point to watch him, to memorise the colour of his eyes and the way he moves, to record his smallest gestures and each one of his smiles.

“So,” Arthur says, placing his hand on the carriage window. “You're off.”

“I'm off.” Merlin sighs. He pauses. He's on the verge of saying something but whatever that is only gets out in bits and pieces. “I'm going to put you in every nook and cranny.”

“Pardon?”

Merlin shakes his head. “I'll be missing you.” He lifts his shoulders. “So I'm going to pour all my memories of you and of this place into my designs.”

Arthur's not sure how that can be done, but he has a feeling Merlin's not lying, that he's indeed capable of infusing feeling into stone. He's a little broken by the notion, undone in places that may not show, but that are at the core of him. “I'll come visit.”

Merlin nods, covers his hand with his. “I know.”

“Until then,” Arthur says, his throat clogging with words he isn't sure he can say. 

Merlin leans over and kisses him, a shadow of a kiss that has nonetheless the impact of a volley aimed at the chest. When he's done, he sits back down, smiles, grazes Arthur's knuckles with his, and, after a swallow, calls out to the coachman, “You can drive on.”

The carriage doesn't even lift any dust in its wake.


	12. St Petersburg

St Petersburg, Winter 1718

 

Snow lies thick on the ground, in blinding mounds the carriage either swerves from or painstakingly trundles over. The air is sharp with frost, very thin, but it makes the vista astoundingly clear. The whole city looks like a building site, with half-finished constructions and roads dwindling off into nothing. The avenue itself coasts the river. Sheets of ice surround the ships docked in the port. Clumps of snow weigh down the yards and stays, and frost coats the hulls. Closer to the bridge, skaters bundled in fur mill under archways, between pylons and along the banks.

Past a park, they make it two a two-storey palace. It's yellow stone with red brick accents and a sloping slate roof. It perches almost on the water. Behind, in the distance, Arthur can see the shape of a much wider lime-coloured building that is undergoing construction, and make out the hint of flower beds being hedged with bricks, and fountains being dug.

When Arthur steps out of the carriage, he's surrounded by a flock of footmen. The moment they stop crowding him, he sees Merlin. He's wrapped in a heavy-duty black woollen coat, buttoned up to the throat, his hands encased in leather gloves. His nose is red at the tip and he's much paler than Arthur remembers him. He smiles, however, and stalks over to Arthur, pulling him in a hefty embrace, clapping his hands on his back, and exhaling against his neck.

Arthur returns the hug, and feels Merlin relax in it. 

“Oh, I have missed you,” Merlin says, his lips moving a brush away from Arthur's skin. “I have.”

“It's been a long time.” A whole year that has seemed to Arthur to span centuries, a slow-going, uneventful period that's trudged along at the pace of a snail. “Such a long time.”

Merlin steps back, sniffles, eyes gentling. “I know. I know.” He rubs his hands together. “But come inside.”

They come to a chamber dominated by a ceiling-high black-tile stove. Two velvet upholstered chairs idle close to it, furs thrown over their backs. Along the opposite wall stands a desk strewn with papers, blueprints in various stages, drafts, and balance books. Above it hang pictures. They're still lifes for the most part, but one of them isn't. It stands out because it's the only portrait there is but also because it's the miniature Arthur gave Merlin last year in Avallon. The sight of it throws Arthur in the centre of a storm of emotion he hasn't quite experienced in a while. 

“I gather these are your quarters,” Arthur says taking a seat, and attempting to pass off the whirlwind of feeling he's reeling under as some acclimatising.

“Yes, I have a set of rooms here in the dependence,” Merlin says, clearing his chair of scrolls. “But with the Tsar in his winter residence, I have the run of the palace.”

“That must be interesting,” Arthur says as he watches Merlin take a seat. He looks at ease here, at home.

“There are benefits and disadvantages.” Merlin resettles in his chair. “But I don't want to bore you with that. I'd rather know how you've been?”

“Working, entertaining.” And none of that holds a candle to this moment, Arthur thinks. No matter what kind of golden life he may have appeared to live up until now, nothing is comparable to the weightiness of this moment. “Living a courtier's life.”

“I've been a bit of a recluse myself.” Merlin squints out the window. “If you call walking about a project site being a recluse.” His mouth quirks. “You might say I'm an outdoorsy recluse.”

“I thought you'd be much more social,” Arthur says, knowing he'd pictured Merlin being just that, flitting from society event to society event, getting new and powerful friends, becoming the darling of the Russian elite. “What with the inheritance you stand to come into and the kind of high profile your jobs lends you.”

Servants comes in with a silver samovar and plates full of cakes, biscuits, candies, and slices of lemon, next to which lie bowls replete with jam and various sticky looking syrups. When the servants go, it's Merlin who pours the tea in their glasses, tall ones with gilded holders. “I turned it down, my inheritance.”

“Pardon?” Arthur says, unable to believe his ears. “You did what?”

“I turned it down.” Merlin walks over with a glass and hands it to him, their fingers brushing. Though both their hands are cold, the touch sparks fire. “I just couldn't take it.”

Arthur steadies the glass in his hand and follows Merlin about with his gaze. “How come, why?”

Merlin goes back to the desk, where space has been cleared for the samovar, and decants some tea into his own glass. With it in hand, he walks back to the chair and sinks into it. “It's a huge estate, whose minding requires the kind of knowledge I don't possess, the kind that's stamped into you from when you're a child.” He pauses, takes a belaboured breath. “It's land that comes with serfs I could never free or really help, not unless the most basic laws of the country are changed. Considering the state of the nation, I can't do that, take all of that on. So I'm passing.”

“I see.” Arthur takes a sip of his tea. It tastes different from the one he gets in France. It's stronger and more aromatic, served plain. “Are you sure though...” Arthur hesitates over possibly wounding Merlin, ruffling his feathers. “... are you positive that this choice of yours... I don't want to sound overly conceited, but--”

“You didn't influence my decision that way.” Merlin smiles. It's kind but firm. “You're in my heart, Arthur. I feel like you've etched yourself a place in my soul. But I would never have parted from my father's legacy only because of what I feel for you.”

“I'm glad.” Over time Merlin would have come to blame him, if he had. And Arthur wouldn't have been able to bear that. “Truly.”

Merlin nods. “I had to come to terms with it, with who I was and what I wanted out of life.”

“And that is?” Arthur lets the warmth of the glass seep into his palms.

“An architect.” Merlin's eyes shine when he says that. “I want to build things, I want to conceive new spaces, rethink the way we come to terms with nature, with the bending of it to our purposes.”

There's such conviction in Merlin's tone Arthur's positive he's not lying at all. “And you're not going to regret turning down your father's legacy?”

“I thought about that.” Merlin sips and hums softly. “How the land was tied to him, to his past and his identity.”

Avallon's a part of him. In that way Arthur can understand what Merlin's talking about here. But he doesn't mention it out of fear Merlin might mourn the loss of something that was part of his father's gift to him that he's already, to all intents and purposes, renounced. “And to what conclusion did you come?”

“I wandered the country when I first came, I interviewed his friends,” Merlin says. “And I've come to know quite a lot about him. I think that that's enough.”

“Enough?” Arthur empties his face of expression.

“Yes.” Merlin makes broad up and down swipes with his head. “What matters the most to me is the gesture, my father thinking of me when he gifted the land to me. That's...” Merlin's tone grows wistful. “That's what I value the most, his feelings, and that's why I'm glad he petitioned the Tsar on my behalf. It means...”

“That he loved you.”

Merlin shrugs. “That at least he remembered me. That he wanted to do well by me and that's worth all the riches in the world.”

“Which you're turning down.”

Merlin cocks an eyebrow. “I know you probably think me stupid.” He barks a half laugh that has nothing merry about it. “Maybe you'd have preferred if I'd taken the title. It'd have made me your equal, after all, but I couldn't.”

Arthur watches Merlin over the rim of the glass. “You can't think I would want you to do anything you're unhappy with.”

“Even if it makes things between us more difficult?” Merlin's face is still tense with the markings of doubt.

“I only want you to be able to stay true to yourself.” Arthur understands how important that is for Merlin. Besides, he quite likes Merlin the way he is. “And if this choice allows you to be, then it's the best one you could make.”

“So you're happy with it?” Merlin asks, holding himself tight. “It won't... affect us?”

Arthur puts his glass down. “I think the time has come for me to pledge myself.” He ought to have done this before but it had never seemed the right time. “I didn't in the past because I wanted you to make the most of this opportunity.” He cuts ample swathes through the air with his hands, indicating their surroundings. “And because I wasn't sure your feelings wouldn't change.”

Merlin exhales hard. “They haven't.” His face set into stubborn lines. “And they won't.”

“But if you're in doubt as to my intentions--” Arthur has truly never meant for Merlin to have any, “then rest assured they're pure.”

“I hope they're not entirely that way.”

Arthur's mouth tilts at the corner. “Let's say mostly.” He grows serious again. “I'd love it if we could have more time together, if we could be partners.”

Merlin leans forward in his chair, places a hand on Arthur's knee. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Arthur won't let himself hope, because the burst of it that's already spearing him through is fit to kill a man, and if he's misheard, then he's about to invite so much disappointment. “Yes, that's it? That's all? You don't have to think about it?”

“Not at all.” Merlin looks at him with a fondness that cannot be mistaken for anything else. “I've made up my mind. I want to be with you.”

However much Arthur wants to stay sober, not to get too elated at this future prospect, he can't quite ignore that warmth that oozes from Merlin in constant waves. “And you're certain?”

“Yes. Besides your offer sounds very timely to me.” Merlin bursts into a grin. “For I have taken another job.”

Arthur thinks of this as quite a non sequitur, so he says, “I don't see what that has to do with my declaration.”

“I'm to build a new villa for the Princesse de Conti.” Merlin's eyes sparkle. “I won't be starting till I'm finished with Peterhof, which will take a year or two more, at least my part of it, but then...”

Arthur answers the second he catches Merlin's tail-end smile. “But then you're coming to France.”

“Yes.” Merlin rubs his thumb across Arthur's knuckles, moving it in soft circles. “If you'll have me.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “Yes, I'll have you.”

They talk and talk then, about the future, and what it has in store for them. They put forth plans, however tentative they might be, and discard others that seem infeasible. They build castles in the air, and get practical about the small things they will need to get done. With a year separation weighing on them, they update each other as to what's come to pass in their lives, bring each other up to speed about the small things as well as the more momentous ones. And when the light outside dims, Merlin lights a candle, and they reprise their conversation, which only stops when some clock deep in the palace's interior chimes four.

**Author's Note:**

> Peter the Great did really visit Versailles in 1717. He really took over the duc de Bourgogne's apartments and then moved into the Trianon. It was the duc d'Antin, not Arthur, who was tasked with welcoming him. I gave Arthur his job.
> 
> Monsieur Arouet is, if you're wondering, none other than Voltaire.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Tsar's Architect Drawing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271371) by [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18)




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